Rite of Passage
by Oaktown fangirl
Summary: The women of Collinwood band together to settle a score, as Amy Jennings comes of age and takes her place among them.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: I started this story several months ago. Life intervened and it took considerably longer to draft than I had planned. Along the way, I learned that Denise Nickerson, the actress who portrayed Amy Jennings passed away recently. She was such a talented child actor, and Amy's untapped potential inspired this story. This isn't a dedication, as such, but I wanted to note her passing and acknowledge her for bringing Amy to life.

A further note: This story follows the events of my two previous DS fics, but I don't think they're essential reading for this one. Just go along with the facts as presented—think of it as my own personal "parallel time." I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

The Great House on the Collinwood Estate has settled into a new phase of life. Its residents enjoy a kind of calm uncommon on the estate. At the same time though, tension roils just beneath the surface. Because while the unexplained—and unexplainable—occurrences so common on the estate have receded into the background, a formidable force wreaks havoc in the personal lives of the estate's inhabitants. For one Collinwood resident, Amy Jennings, it catalyzes her steps along a path to self-discovery.

* * *

Collinwood 1971

When Carolyn Stoddard arrived at the Great House, it was nearly afternoon. She deposited her handbag on the table in the foyer and hung her coat in the entryway.

"I'm back," she called out to no one in particular. "And I picked up the mail," she added hoping her mother was nearby and would hear her. Then she took the stack of letters into the drawing room, sat at the small writing table, and began rifling through them. She set them aside one-by-one until she came to a pale pink envelope, addressed in familiar handwriting. She slit the seal with the letter opener and pulled out the matching pink stationery.

_Dear Carolyn,_

_I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write back. Thanks for sharing all the news from home. I'm glad that David and Amy are adjusting well to their new school. It seems strange that they're attending school in Collinsport, but I think you were right. It was time. Having a governess is so old-fashioned._

_We've been really busy settling into our new place in San Francisco. I think I told you in my last letter that our friends in New Orleans, Professor Dudoit and his wife, provided us a letter of introduction to one Mrs. Miller in San Francisco. Mrs. Miller has been so wonderful to us. Quentin is now working in her bookstore, "Mrs. Miller's House of Mystery, Magic and the Occult." It sells mostly paperback mysteries and other used books, but Quentin says it's also a treasure trove of books on magic and the occult. _

_Mrs. Miller is also our landlady. We live in a small flat above the bookstore. It's cozy—smaller than the farmhouse. Our bedroom is the small attic space at the very top of the house. It's barely tall enough for Quentin to stand up, and fits just our bed and nightstand, but we love it._

_Quentin especially loves it here. He says he's learning a lot from Mrs. Miller, and not just about running a bookstore. Mrs. Miller, it seems, is quite knowledgeable about the subject of the books—magic and the occult. As for Mrs. Miller herself, I'd like to say that she's some wizen, old hag, but on the contrary, I think she's young enough to see Quentin as a handsome, attentive younger man. I guess I'll always have to deal with this kind of thing where he's concerned. Not that he's given me any cause to worry. It's just—well, you know._

_Anyway, as for me, I'm happy here too. I am finally pursuing my crafts as more than a hobby. While Quentin works in the bookstore, I've been making macramé belts and plant holders, and crocheting vests and shawls. Two weekends ago, I took my wares to a crafts fair in the park—and I sold several pieces! I've been busy making more in time for another fair next month._

_We've ridden the cable car down to the wharf, gone for long walks through the city, and even rented paddleboats at the lake in the park. It's been really romantic, and begins to feel like home in a way. It's different from Collinwood. But we like it here and we're happy._

_Has Tony come to his senses yet? Please write again soon. I promise to be a better correspondent._

_Love always, _

_Maggie_

"Bad news?" Elizabeth Stoddard asked her daughter from the doorway of the drawing room.

Carolyn had been so absorbed in Maggie's short letter that she failed to notice her mother's arrival. "Not exactly. What makes you ask?"

"Just the look of consternation on your face. Ever since you were little, you always get that look when something doesn't go your way," her mother said, as she moved to her daughter's side.

"I finally heard from Maggie," Carolyn said. She roughly set the letter down. "In my last letter, I suggested that they come home. But all she talks about is how much they like it there. I don't think Maggie will come back," she continued plaintively.

"You have to tell her we _need_ her to come home," came Amy's voice as she joined them, closing the drawing room doors behind her. "Tell her that _I_ need her. Tell her that I'm not adjusting to school, or tell her that I'm sick. Tell her anything that will convince her to come home," Amy said. Her eyes and voice were steady, but conveyed a sense of urgency. "Please, Carolyn. Please _call_ her."

* * *

Some months earlier …

As David and Amy descended the steps of the Collinsport School, he asked, "You'll be all right, won't you?"

"Of course," Amy responded with a slight roll of her eyes. "You don't have to keep asking if I'm going to be all right," she added with a bitter edge to her voice.

"I just …" he began. His eyes shifted to a clump of boys waiting at the foot of the stairs. He waved, and the boys responded with gestures of impatience. "I don't like leaving you alone everyday," he concluded.

"But you want to be with your friends. So, go. I'll be fine. See you at the library at 4:00," she said, already turning away, heading in the opposite direction.

As David ran to join the boys, Amy turned back for a moment, just in time to see them rounding the corner of the school, heading toward the schoolyard. Most days she made a beeline to the library, which had become a second home for her. She could lose herself among the books, or carve out a quiet corner, find a book, and immerse herself in another time or place.

But on this day, she made the walk slowly. Her mind led her almost involuntarily to the void in her life. She knew what she owed the Collins family. They took her in and treated her like family, but they weren't. They were not Maggie, and they certainly weren't Chris. Why, she wondered, did everyone she loved leave her? Why had life dealt her such a fate?

Her throat tightened. She felt tears threatening. She slowed her steps and stopped to collect herself. When she looked up, she found herself in front of the new antiques shop. She peered into the display window. It was adorned by an odd assortment of jewelry, household items, and old books. The books were arranged in a display—and in the foreground lay a deck of cards—Tarot cards. Amy had read about them in a mystery book she'd read.

Without thinking, she entered the shop. A little bell attached to the door announced her arrival. She stepped in and looked around, being careful not to touch anything breakable. There were lamps, dishes, and a chafing dish like the ones that held breakfast at the Great House. In another corner, there were two old-fashioned wooden chests, with clothes and bedding displayed in and on them. She took a few tentative steps into the shop. Unable to resist their pull, she gravitated to the window display, and looked at the Tarot deck.

"May I help you?" a stern-sounding voice asked from behind her.

Amy immediately began stammering, "I'm sorry. I didn't touch anything," as she turned to face the voice.

The woman who stood before her was tall, with what Amy imagined was raven-hair, like she'd read in books. Although she wore a high-neck sweater over a pair of slacks, she also wore more jewelry than Amy was accustomed to seeing—several bangle bracelets, dangly earrings, and a thick gold chain necklace culminating in a large round pendant. Amy looked at her, transfixed for a moment.

The woman's face grew soft. "Welcome," she said. A smile came to her lips. "I'm so glad you decided to come in."

"You are?" Amy asked. Then she added suspiciously, "Why? Most of the shop-owners don't like kids coming into their shops after school."

"I'm not most shop-owners, and you're not most kids," the woman replied, still smiling. "You're drawn to the Tarot cards," she said—more of an observation than a question.

"I saw them in the window," Amy said simply.

"Have you ever had a reading?" the shopkeeper asked.

"No. They tell the future, right?"

"Sometimes, but they can tell us so much more … our destiny … our prospects for good fortune or omens for ill fortune. Would you like me to read the cards for you?" the shopkeeper asked.

"Yes, please," Amy said with genuine enthusiasm.

"Follow me." Then she called out, "Philip, I'll be occupied in the office. Listen for the bell, please."

"All right," came a deep voice from someplace above the little shop.

"My husband—and business partner—Philip," the woman said to Amy. "I'm Megan, by the way," she continued as Amy followed her to the inner sanctum from which she'd emerged only a minute earlier.

"I'm Amy," Amy told her.

"It's nice to meet you, Amy."

"I'm pleased to meet you too, Megan," Amy said in her best approximation of a grown-up.

"Have a seat," Megan said, offering Amy a seat across from her at the desk.

"Don't you need the cards?" Amy asked glancing over her shoulder toward the shop.

Megan opened the desk drawer. "I have many," she said. "I collect them. Each time I find a set, I buy them, thinking I'll sell them. Each time I end up keeping them for myself."

"Why?" Amy asked with raised eyebrows.

"Because each is unique—the artwork, the feel of the card-stock—each set speaks in a different way." Megan laid five sets of tarot cards on the desk.

Amy looked, but did not touch them. Some were worn and frayed; some looked like illustrations in old magazines and books.

Megan asked Amy to select a set of cards. Amy selected a set that was neither new nor particularly old. They were a bit worn, but the illustrations were intricate and especially lovely. "These, I think," she said.

"Very well. Close your eyes, Amy. Think about a challenge, something that troubles you, or something you want to understand about yourself. Do not say it, just picture it," Megan continued. As Amy closed her eyes, Megan redistributed the cards, hand over hand. "Do you know what you want the cards to tell you?" she asked.

"Yes," Amy murmured.

"Open your eyes." Amy opened her eyes. Megan began to lay the cards face down in a pattern on the desk. Once laid out, she began to turn them over one-by-one. "Hmmm," Megan hummed softly.

"What does it mean?" Amy asked anxiously, sitting forward at the edge of the chair.

"It's an auspicious reading, Amy." Megan touched the magician card. "This one speaks of your potential … potential greatness, as yet untapped."

"But this card says Death," Amy said.

Megan smiled slyly. "Yes, but the cards are not literal. The Death card can be powerful—transformative—the end of one life and the start of a new one. This is what I see for you, Amy."

"You do?" was Amy's incredulous response.

"What do you know of your heritage, Amy?" Megan's eyes were warm, but serious.

"What do mean? I know I have—had—two brothers and …"

"I mean more than your immediate family. I mean _your people_. Amy, you and I belong to the same people—we both descend from the same line of Romany people," Megan said with gravity.

"Romany?" Amy returned in a small voice.

"Yes, some call our people gypsies, but we prefer Romany—and you are one of us. I feel it; I felt it the moment you walked into the shop. Then the cards confirmed it. You have gifts, Amy—special gifts. You only need to learn to harness them."

"What kind of gifts? How do I learn to use them?"

"Your gifts are many—and varied. The cards say so. Let me teach you what I know. Let me be a bridge between your natural gifts and the knowledge of our ways."

"I … I don't know … when and how would we begin?" Amy asked hesitantly.

"You must come after school, as often as you can—as often as you _like_. We will begin with the tarot. I will teach you to read the cards. You must take these," Megan said as she gathered the cards from the desk. "They're yours."

"I don't have any money," Amy said. "I can't afford them."

"No, I mean they are _yours_," Megan said emphatically. "They called to you, and you were drawn to them. They will always lead you to the truth."

Inside the antiques shop, a clock chimed four o'clock. "Oh no!" Amy said. "I'm supposed to meet Carolyn at the library. I'll be late." Amy stood and Megan followed suit. Amy tucked the cards into her book-bag, and followed Megan out of the small office back into the shop.

"I'd like to come again tomorrow, if you'll be here." Amy beamed at her new friend, as they made their way to the front door of the shop.

"Yes, I'll be here. I'm so glad you came in today, Amy."

"Me too." Then Amy was out the door. The little bell signaled her departure.

"Don't get too attached to her, Megan." Philip stood on the bottom step of the stairs leading to the upper floor apartment.

"You wouldn't understand," Megan retorted. "She's one of us."

"One of _you_," Philip responded in a cool, dispassionate voice.

"After all these years, you still don't understand us—you still don't understand the bond among the Romany, because you're not one of us."

"I understand this—she isn't yours, Megan—she isn't _ours_. She'll never take the place of the children we can't have," Philip said. Again, his words were pointed, yet cool and devoid of obvious emotion.

"And whose fault is that, Philip?" his wife responded bitterly. "Whose fault is that?"

* * *

Amy's book-bag tapped a rhythm on her right hip as she practically ran toward the library. She was supposed to be there when Carolyn arrived at 4:00 to pick them up. She'd be late, and Carolyn would be angry—or worse, worried and disappointed in her. She'd lost track of time. It was as though she'd been waiting her entire life to find a connection, and now she had one. What's more she had _gifts_. She would learn everything she could about her culture—and her gifts. She could hardly wait to go back to the antiques shop, to learn more.

Amy crossed the street and approached the library. Even at that distance, she could see Carolyn waiting outside, her blond hair glinting in the fading afternoon sunlight, nervously checking her watch, David at her side. A pang of guilt rippled through Amy.

David spotted her first. "Here she is," he said testily.

"Amy, where have you been? I've been so worried about you." The words spilled out of Carolyn.

"I'm sorry, Carolyn," Amy said. Tears pricked her eyes, and the lump in her throat threatened to strangle her words.

"When the librarian said you never came to the library today, I feared the worse." Carolyn's voice conveyed the full measure of her anxiety.

"I'm really sorry," Amy began. "I meant to be here by 4:00," she continued.

"Where were you anyway?" David asked irritably.

"You are _both_ meant to be at the library after school," Carolyn scolded.

"Thanks Amy for messing everything up," David groused under his breath, as the three headed up the street toward Carolyn's car. "I was just playing catch with my friends," he whined.

"I was passing that new antiques store, and decided to go in and look around," Amy said.

Carolyn sent a concerned glance in Amy's direction. "And you've been there the entire time since school ended? Are you sure the owners don't mind? Most of the shop owners don't want kids hanging around after school."

"Oh no. Megan isn't like that. She was happy to have me," Amy responded.

"Oh?" Carolyn was skeptical.

"She invited me to go there as often as I like," Amy began. "She …" Then she hesitated, unsure whether to tell them about her Romany heritage. She could imagine David's snide, unwelcome comments. So, instead she said, "I'd like to go again tomorrow. Megan said I could."

Before Carolyn could respond, David interjected, "Well, if she gets to go to the antiques shop, I'm going to play catch with my friends."

Carolyn, feeling overmatched and outnumbered, sighed her frustration audibly. "Fine. David, you can play with your friends after school; and Amy, you can go to the antiques shop. But I want both of you to meet me at the library at 4:00. "And Amy," she added, "I'm going to go to the antiques shop tomorrow to meet Megan, and make sure she's really okay with you hanging around the shop after school."

By now they were approaching Carolyn's car. She unlocked the passenger-side doors. David climbed into the front passenger seat, and Amy took her usual place behind them. Then Carolyn got in, turned over the engine, and pulled out. "So how was school today?" she asked, as they made their way down the main Collinsport Road, back to the great estate.


	2. Chapter 2

A new day has come to the great estate at Collinwood. Just as the sun struggles through the emblematic clouds, one of the estate's residents seeks to understand as yet unknown motives and motivations. For Carolyn Stoddard, the desire to learn about Collinsport's new shopkeepers and their intentions toward her ward may reveal something unsought and unexpected.

* * *

Carolyn Stoddard, scion of the Collins family of Collinwood, was well known anywhere she went in the town of Collinsport. She was a study in contradiction—at once accustomed to the deference she received from the residents of her family's namesake town, and to playing it off lightly as though she possessed the "common" touch. She would frequent the local tavern, the Blue Whale, but then take shopping trips to Boston to buy the latest fashions and make-up. At her mother's urging, she served on the hospital board, but could be sharp-tongued and impatient when she didn't get her way. In short, she exemplified the meaning of "being a Collins in Collinsport."

When Maggie, her friend and the children's governess, moved away, it had been Carolyn's idea that the children of Collinwood, her cousin David, and her ward Amy, should go to school in Collinsport. Although she could have tasked the family chauffeur, Harry Johnson, with driving them and picking them up each day, she preferred to do it herself. To her surprise, she found she actually enjoyed the routine. So each day, she dropped the children off at school in the morning, and in the afternoon, she met them at the Collinsport Library. It worked out well, until Amy disrupted their routine.

On this morning, Carolyn was ready and waiting in the foyer when David and Amy descended the stairs. Most days were a scramble to get into town on time. It seemed to Carolyn that invariably David would forget his lunch in the family dining room, where Mrs. Johnson put it, or Amy would have to return to her room to retrieve a forgotten homework assignment, or some other last minute occurrence would threaten to make them late. This morning though, both arrived in the foyer with the requisite book-bag, lunch box, and all of their completed homework.

As was often the case in the morning, the ride into Collinsport was quiet. The children, seemingly still unaccustomed to rising early, were generally taciturn, while Carolyn entertained herself by singing along to the Bangor top-40 radio station. She would drop the children at school. Sometimes she would immediately return to the estate; sometimes she would run errands in town.

On this morning, Carolyn went to the Collinsport Inn for breakfast, and to kill time until the antiques shop opened. She sat at a table by the window with a pot of coffee and a basket of pastry in front of her, the _Collinsport Star_ spread beside them. From time to time, she took a sip of coffee and a bite of her Danish then returned to the newspaper. There were no reports of strange animal attacks or other unexplained phenomena. It was as though Collinsport was any other seaside enclave in Maine. There was a story about a minor accident at the mill, and predictions of a storm blowing in over the weekend—news that would otherwise have been buried deep in the interior pages by the usual horrific goings-on.

Carolyn set the paper aside and actually sighed aloud, which brought the waitress to her table at once. "Can I get you anything else, Miss Stoddard?"

Carolyn slipped into lady of the manor mien. "No, thank you." She looked at her watch. The antiques shop should have been open for nearly 15 minutes. She folded her napkin and dropped it on the table next to her plate. "Please put this on the family tab," she told the waitress, who stood eager-faced beside her.

"Of course, Miss Stoddard." As the waitress began to clear the table, Carolyn tucked a dollar bill under the coffee pot. "Thank you, Miss Stoddard. Come again soon," the young woman enthused.

Whether it was genuine or affected, Carolyn didn't know or care. She put on her gloves and coat, grabbed her handbag, and left, leaving the partially read _Collinsport Star_ on the table.

* * *

When Philip Todd descended the stairs that led from the upper floor apartment into the antiques shop, he found his wife, Megan, perched on a tall stool behind the counter. He'd returned late the previous night from Bangor, and found her already asleep, or feigning to be. Megan, invariably an early riser, was up and about by the time he woke. By the time he'd showered, shaved, dressed, and had a cup of coffee, it was just past ten. He knew Megan would have already opened the shop. She was reliable and efficient.

When he emerged into the shop, she was reviewing the receipt book. She would have already set up the cash register for the day, raised the shades, unlocked the door, and turned the sign to welcome visitors to the shop. All would be taken care of, courtesy of his wife.

On this day, he'd dressed with care—brown slacks topped with a forest green belted turtleneck. He gave his sweater a final adjustment as he approached his wife from behind. He slid her thick, auburn hair over her shoulder, and planted a kiss on her neck.

"You got in late last night," Megan said in a neutral, nonchalant tone.

"Yes," Philip drawled in response, before continuing, "but wait until you see what I picked up." His voice became excited. "Megan, Mr. Smythe collected antique watches. I bought two of them. I can't wait to show them to you," he added. As he turned to retrieve the watches, he caught sight of a splash of blond hair glinting through the front window. He turned to Megan, "First customer of the day."

"I've been expecting her," Megan said.

"Oh?" Philip asked with a raised eyebrow. "You didn't say you were expecting anyone. Is she buying or selling?" Philip observed the blond woman, who stood peering at the display in the window—Megan's handiwork and specialty.

"That's not what I meant," Megan told her husband. She hopped off the stool, then smoothed her hair and tugged down her skirt.

"Oh," Philip replied with a slight sneer. "More _gypsy_ nonsense, Megan?"

Megan spun toward him—her eyes bright with indignation. "After all of these years, you still willfully misunderstand and insult me and my culture, Philip …" Whatever she intended to say in follow up, the tinkling bell on the door interrupted her retort.

"Hello," a tentative voice called out.

"Good morning," Megan responded as she advanced from behind the counter.

"Good morning." A young woman with long blond hair, and penetrating eyes with wisdom that belied her youth returned her greeting. Megan quickly assessed her. She wore a pert double-breasted coat, color coordinated shoes and handbag completed the look.

To Megan's mind, though the clothes were clearly costly, they were just a bit staid. She prided herself on finding unusual scarves and pieces of jewelry to jazz up her look. On this day, she added to her mini-skirt and sweater combination, a large medallion dangling from a thick chain, and several bangle bracelets, a nod to her cultural heritage.

"I was just admiring your window display," Carolyn began. "It's not at all what one expects from an antiques shop," she said as she drew off her gloves one after the other.

"Oh?" Philip stepped forward. "And what does one expect?" he asked in a buttery tone.

Carolyn gave a light chuckle. "I don't know—something stuffy, I suppose."

"Well, there's nothing stuffy about my wife Megan's window displays. They're always fanciful," Philip continued in a smarmy tone. "I'm Philip Todd," he said extending his hand to Carolyn. "And this is my wife, Megan." He gestured to his wife.

"I'm Carolyn—Carolyn Stoddard." Carolyn shifted her hand from Philip to Megan, adding, "I'm actually quite intrigued by the fortune-telling display."

Philip saw his opportunity to extricate himself from further conversation. "Well, I'll leave you two to get acquainted. I have business in Bangor again today," he announced.

Seemingly, it was news to Megan, who asked, "Again?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," her husband replied, already moving to retrieve his sport-coat from a coat-rack near the counter. He gave Megan a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, and then extended his hand to Carolyn. "Miss Stoddard."

"Please call me Carolyn."

"Carolyn, it is. I hope we get better acquainted—soon." With that, Philip Todd headed out the door, leaving his wife with an expression all too familiar to Carolyn.

Carolyn offered Megan an empathetic smile. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

Megan's eyes followed her husband's departing figure as he trotted across the street to their car. She exhaled a deep sigh. "You're not interrupting. I'll be glad to have some company." Now she fixed Carolyn with her gaze. "So are you interested in fortune-telling, or did you come to talk about Amy?"

Carolyn's cheeks flushed. "Both! But I should have known that Amy would mention me."

"She only said that she lives with the Collins family, and everyone in town knows who you are," Megan laughed.

Carolyn gathered herself, reasserting her Collins mien. "Well, I thought I should meet you, if Amy will be spending time here. Are you sure you don't mind her coming here after school? Kids that age can be a terrible nuisance."

"I don't mind or I wouldn't have invited her," Megan said with a tight smile. "She's a delightful child and I'm happy to have her here as often as she likes. I know she doesn't have much family, just a brother, I believe."

"Yes—Chris." Carolyn suddenly felt an uncomfortable heat rising. She unbuttoned her coat.

"Where are my manners?" Megan said. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No, thank you, but a glass of water would be nice."

"Come," Megan led Carolyn to the small office. Once there, she filled a small paper cup with water and handed it to her. "Please, have a seat," she said, gesturing to the same seat where Amy had sat the day before.

"What about the shop?" Carolyn asked.

Megan cocked her head to one side and took her seat behind the desk. "As you can see, we're not overrun by customers. The bell will alert me if anyone comes in. Please, sit."

Carolyn took a seat across from her, and sipped the water.

"So, are you really intrigued by fortune-telling?" Megan asked.

Carolyn flipped her hair over her shoulder and smiled. "I am. Is the crystal ball real? Or just a prop?"

"Oh, it is quite real," Megan said. "The ball has its uses and will reveal much to the right diviner."

"And the Tarot cards?"

"The same. But sometimes I prefer a more personal touch. Give me your hand."

"What?" Carolyn's eyes went wide.

"You have questions, don't you?" Megan asked.

"Yes," Carolyn whispered in response.

"Then give me your hand."

Carolyn extended her right hand, and Megan took it in both of hers. She held it in silence for some time, examining Carolyn's palm, running her thumb down the lines. She closed her eyes. "Beautiful and caring, yet alone," she murmured. "One man carries a dark secret that he cannot share. So he ran from you. The other …" Here she opened her eyes and met Carolyn's. "The other cannot face you after what he's done. He doesn't understand why he did it—why he succumbed to her charms. So he, too, has run from you, leaving you alone and bewildered."

Carolyn jerked her hand away. "Did Amy tell you those things?"

"Do you think so little of your ward?" Megan asked bitingly, and seemingly rhetorically as she went on, "Amy keeps her own counsel."

"The town wags then?"

Megan scoffed and looked disgruntled.

"I'm sorry. I … I don't know what to believe." Carolyn stammered, finding herself suddenly on the defensive. She looked away and let her hair shield her face.

"Believe this," Megan told her firmly, "I read it in your palm. I _felt_ it in your hand."

"So, you can read my past. Can you read my future?"

"The past and the future—it's all the same."

"I don't understand," Carolyn said, her frustration rising.

"What do you want to know, Carolyn?" Megan asked firmly.

"The man—the second one—_Tony_ …"

"The one with the dark eyes and a dark countenance that hides the goodness within. If you want him to return to you, you must fight for him!" The latter Megan said with purposeful dramatic flourish.

"I still don't understand," Carolyn sighed.

"When the time is right, you will," was Megan's final pronouncement.

Then the mood broke, as though a breeze blew through the shop and swept away an ominous mist.

Megan's demeanor shifted. She rose and offered Carolyn a disarming smile. As she led her back into the shop, she asked, "So, will you allow Amy to spend some time with me? She was fascinated with the shop, and I'd welcome the company."

"Well, if you're sure she won't be in the way …" Carolyn began. "She does seem to like you too."

"It's settled, then," Megan said as they reached the front door of the shop.

"Yes, it's all settled."

"You must come again. I have some lovely antique jewelry and watches that might suit you," Megan said as though speaking to any other customer—as though the reading had never taken place.

"Yes, I'd like that," Carolyn replied with a faint smile.

By the time Carolyn emerged from the shop, the smattering of gray clouds that had dotted the morning sky had coalesced into a thick dun blanket. A storm was sure to follow.

* * *

Professor Timothy Eliot Stokes had become a fixture in the town of Collinsport. As the founder of a niche program in Occult Studies at a nearby university, he made the drive to and from campus to deliver lectures, use the library to conduct research, and attend meetings with his colleagues. But following these professional obligations, he returned to Collinsport—and his colleagues returned to incredulous and sometimes snide musings about him.

He had created the program (and was its sole faculty member) within the established department of archaeology. His colleagues were traditionalists; he was an iconoclast. Where his colleagues pursued the past, he pursued the unknown. What's more, he applied the same intellectual rigor to his pursuit of the unknown that his colleagues applied to their more conventional pursuits.

On this day, no obligations required him to make the drive to campus, so he had intended to spend the morning in town. He rose early, as was his custom. He dressed meticulously, as he was given to do. Over coffee and toast, he read the _Collinsport Star_, noting that there were no reports of strange or unexplained occurrences—and thus contained little of interest to him. He set it aside and turned instead to the journal of a fledgling society of like-minded scholars in occult studies. They were small in number, and spread all over the world, but they shared common interests and methods. Together, they painstakingly documented occult and supernatural phenomena in a journal they self-published two to three times a year, as time and money permitted.

Stokes's plan for the day had been to read until mid-morning, then head to the dining room of the Collinsport Inn for a mid-morning repast. If he were honest, his real intention—his real desire—in doing so, was the hope of running into _her_. He knew she frequently dined there—and unlike him, was not an early riser. So his best chance of encountering her was mid-morning. He must be patient until then.

He soon found himself absorbed by an account of a mystical staff discovered by one of his colleagues in North Africa. His fellow occultist recounted its discovery and the strange powers with which it was imbued.

A clap of thunder recalled Stokes to his plan of going to the Inn. He went to the window. What had been a promising morning had given way to a dark bank of storm clouds. All at once the clouds disgorged a torrent of rain. It pelted his window, and the accompanying wind howled. It was too late—he did not desire braving the squall on the off chance of seeing her—of _encountering_ her.

Still, the desire, once kindled was not easily extinguished. He set aside the journal he'd been reading, went to the bookcase, and looked through a collection of composition books he kept there. He had left the space provided on the cover blank, but inside on the first page, he noted its subject. He readily found the one containing his notes, thoughts, and personal reflections on the subject of his next case study for the journal—the sorceress, _Angelique_.

He sat at his desk, opened the notebook to the bookmarked page, dated his entry, and began.

_I last saw Angelique nearly a week ago. I should have recorded this entry then, but something held me back. To be honest, I was held back by the knowledge of my own behavior. I felt—ashamed. I felt it keenly then. Now with the passage of a week, I feel ready to reflect with brutal honesty on our last encounter._

_It was late afternoon, and I'd just returned from delivering a lecture at the university. It was one of __those__ days. I was tired from the long drive, and feeling the lure of throwing off my obligations to the university and retiring to Collinsport full time. As always, I was torn—still relishing opening minds to the possibilities of the occult, which is what my university appointment affords me. _

_I'd made my way home, and had barely time enough to deposit my briefcase on the desk and remove my coat, when there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find her there. Her iridescent eyes sparkled at me. Her blond hair was perfectly coiffed. She was loveliness itself._

"_Aren't you going to ask me in, Eliot?" she asked, even as she was already entering, and removing her purple tweed coat._

"_Of course," was all I could muster in response. I was surprised, and my face clearly left her in no doubt of it._

"_You're surprised to see me," she said, as I hung her coat. She swept into my apartment, as she always did, like a force of nature. _

_By the time I turned back to face her, she was already comfortably ensconced on my couch. "It's been quite some time since you last visited me," I told her._

"_I'm sorry if I've neglected you. I've had so many other things to attend to," the sorceress said._

"_Like Roger Collins, if the town gossipmongers are to be believed."_

"_Gossipmongers—or Julia Hoffman?" she asked pointedly._

_I was instantly sorry I'd started down this road. "So what brings you here today, my dear?" I asked to change the subject._

"_Do you believe in premonitions, Eliot?" she'd asked._

"_Of course," I told her. "They're the least of the mysteries that I've encountered."_

"_I've been troubled by a premonition," she told me and waited for me to pull the information from her._

"_Of what?"_

"_I don't know, but I feel as though some specter is stalking me—my past, my future …" She showed rare and remarkable vulnerability in that moment. "Some force is marking me. Some entity that I cannot see or name—me—me with all my powers cannot see it or conjure it. If I could, I would face it." Then she recollected herself. "Look at the time. I must go," she said, rising from the couch, self-consciously patting her hair._

"_Go to __him__," I said. The words escaped me without thinking._

"_To __Barnabas__," she said pointedly._

"_Yes, to Barnabas," I said sadly. "Why do you go on tormenting him? Why not release him from the curse? There are others who admire you—others who would gladly give you the love that he will not."_

_I could see at once the fury in her eyes. "What? Like Roger? Who treats me like an ornament to adorn his Collins arm. Or you, Eliot? You're the male equivalent of a spinster. Do you think I don't see the hope in your eyes every time we meet? Don't presume to tell me about love. You know nothing about it." Then she swept out, much as she'd come in. The door shook with emphasis, as she took her leave._

Stokes inserted the bookmark and closed the composition book. It was not the first time that he committed to himself that this would be the last entry—that the time had come to write and publish the case study. But each time, his commitment was consigned to the dustbin of good intentions.

He returned the notebook to the bookcase. _I should publish it and be done with her, _he thought_. _"What am I waiting for?" he wondered aloud. Another clap of thunder and the sound of rain pelting the window was the response.

* * *

Amy was happy—not the kind of happy she would be if her brother, Chris, returned, but happy as in having a good day. She did a little twirl then picked up her plate and glass and headed to the kitchen. Mrs. Johnson wasn't there. So she put them on the counter next to the sink. She had had her afternoon snack by herself in the family dining room. David had taken his cookies and milk upstairs so that he could call one of his friends. Amy didn't understand why they needed to talk again so soon after seeing one another in school. It didn't matter. She was content even without David's companionship.

Waiting for her were two books she'd borrowed from the library. She had gone to the library after school to wait for Carolyn. While she waited, she perused the occult section and found a book on interpreting the Tarot. Then she'd gone to the children's fiction section. There she found a mystery book. Based on the picture on the cover, she knew the story would involve "gypsies." She couldn't wait to read them. The young librarian had been at the desk that afternoon—the one who reminded her of Maggie, because she had dark hair and kind eyes. The librarian had raised an eyebrow at her selections, but said nothing except to remind her when they were due back, and to enjoy them. She intended to do exactly that.

Then on the way home, Carolyn had told her that she met Megan, and it was okay for her to visit the antiques shop after school—as long as the store wasn't busy. She'd been quietly ecstatic, trying not to betray how pleased she really was.

When she emerged from the hallway into the foyer, she remembered that she had left her jacket and book-bag in the drawing room. The doors were closed and she could hear voices inside—Mr. Collins, Uncle Roger as Carolyn called him, and Mrs. Stoddard. She paused.

"I'll spend time with whomever I like," Roger said. "The poor woman feels neglected, and all I've done is show her some kindness and provide a little companionship in her time of need."

"If she feels neglected, it's Barnabas who should provide a remedy—not you. Lest you forget, she is engaged to marry _Barnabas_," Elizabeth retorted in an angry tone.

"Frankly, Liz, if you and Carolyn treated her better—included her more often—she wouldn't turn to me."

"Oh, I think she would," Elizabeth responded sarcastically.

"Really, Liz," Roger began, "when did you get to be so vicious? I know that some women can be quite …"

"Stop right there, Roger," Elizabeth cut him off. "So you're saying it's my fault? Let me tell you something about women like her. They crave _male_ attention. Not once has she tried to befriend me—or Carolyn. Just the opposite, as you well know. Or have you forgotten so soon?"

"I haven't forgotten, but it was as much his fault as hers, and everyone deserves a second chance," Roger said.

A brief pause ensued. Amy raised her hand to knock, but the doors opened suddenly and Roger stood before her, his face angry and flushed.

"Have you been listening at the door, like a little sneak?" Roger demanded.

"Roger!" came Elizabeth's reproach from within the drawing room.

"I … I didn't mean to," Amy said. Tears pricked her eyes. "I forgot my book-bag and jacket," she said, her voice breaking. She gestured to the small writing table where she'd left her possessions.

"Get them and go," Roger thundered. "And don't treat the drawing room as you would your own room. Don't leave your things about."

"Roger!" Elizabeth called out. But Roger pushed past Amy and stormed out of the front doors. "Amy, I'm so sorry," she continued to the girl. "He isn't the same since that woman got her claws into him."

But Amy just ran and retrieved her things, and then retreated to her room. Once there, she let loose the tears that had threatened. When her tears subsided, small spasms and hiccups rippled through her body in their wake. Still, she opened her book-bag, ignoring the notebook in which she'd written her homework assignment, she took out the book on the Tarot instead. She would begin there.


	3. Chapter 3

The Great House on the Collinwood estate has stood as witness to generation after generation of the Collins family, as well as the servants and guests who have also called it their home. Each generation has discovered for itself the intricacies of the manor's design. The walls themselves provide the means of deception and discovery. One girl who calls the house her home, like generations before her, has found that the Great House itself is an ally in discovering the secrets of others.

* * *

Amy made herself comfortable at the desk in the study. On the drive back to the Great House from town that afternoon, she had decided her homework could wait. Instead, she was anxious to dive into the next chapter of the book on Tarot reading. After school, she had sat in the antiques shop office, laying the cards again and again, while Megan was in the shop with a particularly tiresome customer, who wanted to see every broach and hatpin in the shop. Thus Megan had had little time to instruct Amy that day.

Once they were back at the Great House, Amy had hurried through her after school routine of washing up, changing into comfortable clothes, and having a snack. By rights, homework should have been next. But her mind kept turning over and over the cards she had laid earlier. She thought the answer to the puzzle the Tarot was laying before her must be in the next chapter, or the one after that.

She'd left her book-bag containing her math equations and spelling words upstairs in her room, bringing only the Tarot book and cards with her. She hoped no one would want to use the study. Mrs. Stoddard, she believed, was in town; and Mr. Collins, who knew where he was. _Probably somewhere with Angelique_, Amy thought. At least she hoped so, given how he'd treated her.

Just as she'd opened the book to a bookmarked page, the door opened. She'd left it ajar, but she was still surprised when David barged in.

"Here you are," he said. "I've been looking all over for you."

"Well, you found me," she responded with tart impatience. "What do you want?"

David's face betrayed his irritation, but he said, "I breezed through my homework today. If you're done, I thought we could play a game."

"No thanks. I'm busy."

David persisted. "You don't look busy."

"I'm surprised you aren't on the phone with one of your _new_ friends," Amy said in a cool, accusatory tone.

"Aw, come on, Amy. We can explore the east wing," he said as an inducement.

But Amy's mood was inexplicably dark. "You only want to play with me because your other friends aren't around."

"You'd have more friends if you didn't spend all of your time with that crazy hag from the antiques shop," David shot back angrily.

Amy slammed the book shut. She stood up—her eyes were at once teary and angry. "Her name is Megan! And she's not a _hag_." Amy spat. "She understands me. She's nice to me—not just when she has no one else to talk to or spend time with, David." Her words came out in an angry, defensive rush.

"Fine," David said, unaccustomed to being rebuffed by her for any reason. "But the next time you want to play together, I'm going to remember this." Then he withdrew, leaving Amy alone once again.

As soon as he was gone, Amy felt confused about how she treated him. And he was right. He was her only real friend. Sooner or later, she would have to apologize. _So it may as well be sooner_, she thought. She picked up her book and cards, ready to leave the study and go in search of David.

Just then she heard a voice. It was urgent—_passionate_. It was Carolyn. She sounded upset. Amy could hear her through the wall—not the words themselves, but the tone and inflection. She knew what she was about to do was wrong. It would make her a sneak, just like Mr. Collins said she was. But … Her better nature warred with her natural curiosity. The latter won out, and she made her way first to a false panel in the study, then into the secret passage that joined the study to the drawing room. She crept down the dark passage using one hand pressed against the wall to guide her to the end nearest the drawing room.

Now, Carolyn's voice was clear. "Please, Tony. I said I forgive you—and I do. Just come back and we can talk about it." Carolyn paused as she listened to his response. "At least tell me why." It was then that Amy realized Carolyn was on the phone. There was a short silence, then Carolyn continued. "Collinsport is your home too. At least, it used to be," she said.

Another silence ensued. Amy turned as though to leave, when she heard Carolyn's voice again—sharp and brittle—"It's _her_ isn't it? You can't come back because of her." She paused. Amy waited—wondering what response or excuse Tony was offering. Finally Carolyn resumed, "You're afraid, aren't you? What did Angelique do to you? Make you fall in love with her and then dump you? If so, I feel sorry for you, because I know just how you feel."

Carolyn slammed the phone down so hard, Amy felt as though the force of it vibrated through the wall of the hidden panel. Through the faux-panel Amy could hear Carolyn's muffled sobs. Amy dropped to a seat on the floor of the passageway. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. _Poor Carolyn_, she thought. _Maybe I should go to her … and say what?_

* * *

"Carolyn? I'm sorry to interrupt. I didn't think anyone was in here." When Carolyn turned toward her, Julia Hoffman could see at once that the younger woman had been crying. Her red, tear-stained eyes left no doubt. "Carolyn, what's wrong? Are you all right?" Julia's concern was genuine.

"What's wrong with me, Julia? First Chris, and now Tony. What am I doing wrong?"

"Come now, Carolyn. Of course it's not you—you've done nothing wrong. What happened with Chris and with Tony are completely different," Julia told her in a sympathetic—_therapeutic_—tone.

"You're right, but it doesn't make it better. Chris dumped me without explanation, and Tony, well … what is it about her, Julia? She's engaged to Barnabas, but that's not enough for her. Then she wanted Tony on the side, and now Uncle Roger. How is it that Angelique has all of these men wrapped around her little finger?" Carolyn's tears were gone, replaced by simmering fury.

"Carolyn …" Julia began.

But Carolyn interrupted, "Tony _loved_ me, Julia. I know he did. And things were great until she showed up. Sure, she's beautiful and alluring, but there has to be more to it than that—to ensnare a man like Tony."

"I'm sorry, Carolyn," Julia began, only to be interrupted again.

"No, I'm sorry," Carolyn said. Her fury spent, sadness overtook her again. "I wasn't really expecting an answer."

"Well, for what it's worth, I think I understand how you feel," Julia said.

"Professor Stokes?" Carolyn asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Eliot and I are just friends of course, so my situation is different. But yes, it pains me to see him making a fool of himself over her."

"No offense, Julia, but at times like these, I wish Maggie was here."

"You can call her, can't you?" Julia asked with as much sympathy as she could muster.

"It's not the same," Carolyn said with a hint of petulance that Julia hadn't earned. She went on, "And I can't help but think about how Angelique is the reason that Maggie went away—and stays away from Collinwood." She paused, drew a deep breath, and let it out with an audible sigh. "Goodnight, Julia." She offered the doctor a wan smile.

"It's awfully early to say goodnight, Carolyn."

"Perhaps, but I think I'll take a dinner tray upstairs and retire early. I just don't feel like being around people right now," Carolyn said and headed to the drawing room door.

* * *

On the other side of the partition that joined the drawing room to the secret passage, Amy sat stock still processing what she'd heard. Roger, Barnabas, Tony, even Professor Stokes all fawning after her. But most of all, _Maggie_—what had she done to drive Maggie away? _Did she try to steal Quentin away? Or was it something else?_

All at once, Amy felt horrible for the way she'd pushed Maggie away. Now she could understand that Maggie _had_ to leave—and that _Angelique_ was somehow to blame. It made sense now. Maggie and Quentin's sudden desire to leave Collinwood almost coincided with Angelique's arrival. At first, they'd all seemed like friends, then something happened—something that made them leave Collinwood—something Angelique did. Amy didn't care what it was, she wanted Maggie to come home.

All through the mess that was her family life—Chris abandoning her, Joe's continuing illness—Maggie had been there for her. She wanted Maggie to come home. She wanted to make up for the way she'd treated Maggie before she left. And if that meant Angelique had to leave—she would figure out a way to get Angelique to leave.

She had never liked Angelique anyway. She was one of those women who honed in only on men. She always looked right past her and David, as though they weren't there. Because they were children, they were beneath her notice. And she did not have a single friend among the women of Collinwood. Instead she sought companionship among the men, corrupting and ruining them.

Now Amy stood and quietly crept back along the passage to the study. She pressed her ear against the faux-panel and listened, just to be sure no one had entered the study. It was quiet. She opened the panel and slipped out, securing the entrance to the passageway behind her. She retrieved her book and Tarot cards from the desk where she'd left them. Once in her room, she would read the next two chapters, then lay the cards again.

* * *

At the Old House on the Collinwood Estate, preservation of a bygone time and rituals borne of necessity govern the residents of the estate's original residence. The house, once diminished and ravaged by the passage of time, has gradually been returned to its former stately condition. For Barnabas Collins, his essence—his life-force—is inextricably tied to it. He has traveled through time, first as the result of the curse of vampirism, and a second time courtesy of the I Ching. He has learned what he intuitively knew all along, for in any time period—in all time periods—he was drawn to the Old House. The house itself was a force he could not resist.

Now, with the I Ching trance ended and having been returned to 1970, he finds himself once again a creature of darkness. For once again, angry and betrayed, Angelique pulls the strings of his miserable existence. Hers is a vengeful, cruel kind of love. With Josette's spirit as her hostage, he must do what he can to propitiate the sorceress.

So Barnabas rises, bound by the ritual and the necessity to do so each evening when the sun sets. When he first returned to 1970—when Angelique ended the trance and brought him back—she met him each evening. She enjoyed tormenting him by making them act out again and again the pretense of a loving betrothal. More recently though, whether from boredom or from the desire to heap humiliation upon the other forms of punishment she meted out, she had taken to flouting their engagement for all to see.

Barnabas slowly lifted the lid to his coffin and was met, not by Angelique, but by his servant Willie Loomis. Willie wrung his hands together and hung back until Barnabas had fully emerged.

"Where is she?" Barnabas asked without a greeting or preamble.

"She was here earlier, then Roger picked her up and they left together," Willie said. His voice quavered as it often did, especially since his return from the Windcliff Sanitarium. He was chronically nervous now—broken by a wrongful accusation and the resulting confinement and treatment he knew he did not deserve. By rights, Barnabas and Dr. Hoffman should have catered to him. Instead, he gratefully, if not happily, returned to his former life—helping Barnabas survive. Only this time, he did so not as a blood-slave, but as a servant and protector. He had come to see Barnabas as a victim in his own right—a victim of Angelique.

"And where did they go?" Barnabas asked.

"I don't know, Barnabas. She don't answer to me," Willie stammered.

"Did she leave any message for me?" Barnabas asked, ever mindful of toeing the line for Josette's sake.

"No, no she didn't say to tell you anything, but she don't talk to me—except to tell me what to do," Willie said. He continued in a huff, "And frankly, I don't like it. She comes and goes whenever she likes. She acts like she owns the place."

"I'm afraid it's me she owns," Barnabas replied in a remarkably defeated tone. "There is nothing I can do about it until I free Josette. Have you been searching for the music-box, as I asked?"

"Yes, Barnabas. I've looked everywhere. It's not here. I can't go and search the Great House or the cottage where she's staying." Willie's tone edged toward shrill.

"No—and Angelique is clever. It will be well-hidden," Barnabas lamented. "Still, I _must_ think of a way to find it. In the meantime, I'm going to see Julia."

"Dr. Hoffman?"

"Yes. I must be free of this curse, and only Julia Hoffman can help me."

* * *

Julia watched Carolyn leave, recalling the urgency of youth and how it played out in her own life. In hindsight, she could see how the romances of the moment were little more than an obstacle to the future success she would enjoy as a doctor—and a woman. Still, thinking of the insidious hold Angelique had over Collinwood's men, she empathized with Carolyn.

Julia had not long returned from town, where she'd retrieved from her post office box, the proceedings of a conference on rare blood conditions recently borrowed from a medical library in Boston. Now, she took the book to the armchair beside the fireplace. It was a long-shot that anything in the volume would be of use to her. Barnabas did not have a rare blood condition. Her previous attempt to apply the principles of science and medicine to his condition had nearly ended in catastrophe, so it was a sign of his desperation that he had turned to her again.

Julia opened the book and turned to the table of contents. She found the paper most likely to yield the information she was seeking. She turned to the page. Her eyes skimmed over the abstract. _Yes, it's possible … this could be the answer_, she thought. _But_ … Her eyes went to the opening paragraph. She read it over then read it a second time.

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. She wasn't given to self-doubt. It wasn't that. She was tired—pure and simple. She had invested heavily in seeking a cure for the werewolf curse that had afflicted Chris Jennings, only to see supernatural forces succeed where she had failed. _Failed_. In her life as an eminent physician, the word had no meaning to her. Worse, she knew that Angelique could lift Barnabas's curse if she chose to do so—that Angelique could easily accomplish what she—Julia Hoffman—had thus far been unable to do.

She set the volume aside in frustration, and went to the liquor cabinet. It was not her usual solution to life's frustrations, but at the moment, it seemed as reasonable as any other.

"It's rather early, isn't it Julia?" a voice asked from the doorway.

"Yes," she drawled in response. "Care to join me?" she asked, already pouring a second glass of sherry.

"Yes, thank you." Barnabas stepped into the drawing room and closed the doors behind him.

Julia turned and handed him the sherry. He trailed her to where she sat beside the fireplace. She resumed her seat in the armchair; he sat opposite her on the davenport. "You look tired," he said.

"I'm afraid I don't cope well with frustration," she responded.

Barnabas's eyes drifted to where the volume sat on the small table next to the armchair. "There _must_ be an answer," he said emphatically.

"There is," Julia said with gravity, "and her name is Angelique."

"She will never let me go, Julia. You know that as well as I." He continued, "No—there must be another way. We came so close before!"

"Yes, and look how that turned out," she returned sharply. "Besides, I have nowhere to work. With Angelique coming and going as she pleases, the Old House is out. I need a dedicated laboratory—a _private_ laboratory. I can't keep taking blood samples to the hospital. Dave—Dr. Woodard—is becoming suspicious."

"But if you had use of a private laboratory and could continue your work unimpeded, do you still believe a cure is possible?" Desperation suffused his voice.

A pause ensued as Julia's mind scanned the range of possible responses. His desperation wounded her. He was right though. They—_she_—had come close to finding a cure before, and she could again. Her eyes drifted to the volume she'd set aside. It might contain the answer. If it did not, then the next one might, or the one after that. She refused to believe that there was _nothing_ that scientific inquiry could bring to bear. To believe so would be to negate a lifetime investment in an approach and way of thinking. At last, she began, "Yes, I do …"

"Then I will find you a suitable place for your laboratory," Barnabas interjected before Julia could add qualifiers or conditions that might blunt his optimism.

* * *

When she returned to her room, Amy went at once to her desk, and devoured the next two chapters of the book on reading the Tarot. There were different ways of laying the cards—different ways of interpreting them. She felt confused, intimidated even, but most of all, she felt excited.

Now, she sat cross-legged on her bed. The Tarot book sat beside her. She held the cards in one hand—_her_ cards, the cards that had spoken to her. She thought about her ultimate goal—to bring Maggie home. It was easier than focusing on bringing Chris home—no one even knew where to look for Chris. Or focusing on Joe getting better—that had happened once before and then his illness returned, seemingly worse than ever. No—she wanted Maggie to come back to Collinwood. She wanted things to be as they had been before, during that brief window of happiness—she wanted that back.

She shuffled the cards hand-over-hand—slowly and gently, not as one would for a game of rummy. With each movement of her small hands, she tried to infuse the cards with her intention—with her goal.

There were complicated ways to lay the cards, like the way Megan had. And there were simple ways. She chose the latter. She laid two rows of four cards each and began. She drew a deep breath and turned over the first card.


	4. Chapter 4

At the Great House at Collinwood, a young girl has taken her initial step into a mysterious world—a world that is her birthright. Amy Jennings has read the Tarot and asked it to foretell where her future actions might lead. Armed with the knowledge that the Tarot imparted, she undertakes a course of action intended to restore her happiness. But as is often the case at the great estate, fate has set in motion its own events that might threaten her plans for happiness.

* * *

Amy Jennings was the weird kid. Every school had one, and at Collinsport's junior high school, it was Amy. Amy felt as though she bore some mark that set her apart from the other children. But in a small town like Collinsport, no mark was necessary to set her apart. Everyone knew the ways in which she was different. Everyone knew she had no family to speak of. They all knew that she had a brother, but he had abandoned her. They all knew that Joe Haskell, the town's former golden boy, was her cousin, and that he was now a long-term patient at the Windcliff Sanitarium. And they all knew that the Collins family had taken her in, but she wasn't a Collins—she was their _charity case_.

At first, Amy had felt it acutely. But now, when the mean kids shot contemptuous looks her way for no apparent reason, or the nice ones looked at her through pitying eyes as they went home to their families and she to being a mere ward of the Collins family, she narrowed her eyes and looked back with her head held high. Though she told no one, she now knew where she belonged. She knew who she was, and she had tasted some of what came with that.

So, now she looked forward to the final bell that signaled the end of the school day. As all of the students poured out of the building and scattered to their different afterschool activities, Amy made her way to the antiques shop. The tinkle of the bell above the door announced her arrival.

Amy entered the shop and saw at once that Megan was with a customer. She nodded to Megan then headed to the office. When Megan was busy, Amy would go to the office, take out the Tarot book, and lay the cards for reading. When Megan was free, she would join Amy, sometimes looking over her shoulder and discussing interpretations of the cards.

But today, Amy did not want to read the cards. She already knew what the cards foretold. All day, the reading played at the edges of her mind. She felt uncertain.

"You have a troubled aura about you today, Amy," Megan said from the doorway.

Amy looked up to see her friend eyeing her closely, her arms folded across her chest, a question in her eyes.

"Megan, do all gyp … Romany people have the gift?" Amy asked.

"Why do you ask, Little One?" Megan had given her that pet-name. At first, Amy would roll her eyes, but soon she found it endearing—something between the two of them alone.

"People say such terrible things, and some of the things I read …" Amy's voice trailed off as she did not want to offend Megan by repeating them.

Megan crossed the small office in two long strides. She sat opposite Amy and looked her in the eyes. "Many of our people have been blessed with _the gift_. It is passed down from one generation to the next. It is in our blood. For some it runs strong and deep; for others, less so. Some are wise—they apply themselves and learn to use their gift. Others are complacent. But not all of us are given _the gift_. For some, they must apply themselves in different ways. Some who tell fortunes or read the cards, do not have _the gift_, but they have something equally important—_their wits_. Some must learn to read people—not the cards. They listen; they are attuned to the faces and emotions of the questioner. In this way, they deliver a reading of a different sort. Do you understand?"

"I think so," Amy said tentatively.

"But I believe something else is troubling you," Megan said.

Amy drew her bottom lip between her teeth. She began, "Do you believe I have _the gift_?"

Megan's countenance was serious, bordering on grim. "Yes, I do. I _know_ you do."

"I read the cards yesterday," Amy began. "But how do I know if the cards are right? How can I be sure?" Amy's voice broke.

"This sounds serious, Little One."

Amy weighed telling Megan about her goal of bringing Maggie home, and about the obstacle that stood in her way. She feared that Megan wouldn't understand why it was so important to her—and that she might discourage her. The obstacle was dangerous—the cards foretold the danger ahead. She decided on, "You said yourself that there are different ways to interpret the cards. So, how do you know when you're right? If something is important you want to be sure, right?"

Megan looked at Amy through serious, intense eyes. She nodded as though a decision was made. "It is time," she said. She reached over and patted Amy's arm. "Wait here."

When she returned, Megan carried a small object wrapped in a colorful silk scarf.

"What is it?" Amy asked.

"Come closer—pull your chair close to mine," Megan answered, gesturing with her head. As Amy pulled her chair next to Megan's, Megan placed the object on the desk between them. Then she unfolded the corners of the scarf and tucked them to form a secure base.

"It's a crystal ball!" Amy exclaimed, smiling.

"It's a _divining crystal_," Megan said with gravitas that melted Amy's smile into an expression of wonder without the merriment. Megan continued, "Divining crystals come in many shapes and sizes, but ever since the first one was fashioned into a sphere, that has become the expectation. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I think so," Amy whispered in an almost reverent voice. "How does it work?" she asked.

"Place your hands here and here." Megan positioned Amy's small hands on either side of the crystal. "Close your eyes. Much as you do with the cards, you must infuse the crystal with your will—with your intention."

Amy was silent, but her face squeezed tight with a look of deep concentration. "Do you feel it?" Megan asked. "Do you feel the will of the crystal reaching out to join with yours?" Amy said nothing, but nodded her head slowly. "Good," Megan said. And it was a good sign—Amy was going into a deep trance-like state. It was Megan's role to guide her. Later, when she honed her gift, achieving the trance would be effortless. But for now, Megan spoke soft, guiding words. "Now, open your eyes. Look deeply into the crystal. What do you see?"

"A fog—so thick, so deep—like the banks of fog that cover the estate sometimes," Amy said.

"Good. Now you and the crystal will find the answer to the question that troubles you so. Look deep inside the crystal—to its core, its center. There you will find the answers you seek."

As Amy looked into the crystal sphere, the fog began to part, as though swept away by an incoming breeze.

_She was climbing the stairs of the Great House. She turned and headed toward the east wing. Why would she go there? No one ever went there. Following the hallway to the end, there was a door—behind it was a bedroom suite. From the look of it, it was long abandoned. A layer of dust covered every surface. Thick drapes were drawn to the side to reveal a window seat. The mantle over the large fireplace was empty of any sign that anyone ever lived there—no pictures or candlesticks—nothing. Only a single table that seemed overlooked when the suite was vacated remained. _

_The others joined her. She looked them each in the eyes—but why did they look at her that way? What did they want? What did they expect of her? All she knew was she mustn't let them down. They looked to her to know what to do._

_Then her eyes fell on the only ones that mattered—and those eyes were all she could see. She wanted to look away. Her body shook, but still she could not look away. Then a familiar sound pierced the moment—the snap of wood, the crackle of kindling. The fireplace sprang to life. Still she could not look away. The fire tumbled out of the fireplace. Soon the flames were everywhere, consuming everything in their path. Flames … flames …_

Amy's body shook violently, but her eyes never left the crystal. "Amy, let go. Let go, Little One. Let go." Megan stood behind Amy, gently shaking her shoulders to bring her out of the trance.

Amy let go of the crystal. It hit the desk with a small, dull thud.

"Are you all right?" Megan asked, as Amy's consciousness came back into the room. "Are you all right?" she repeated. "What did you see?"

Amy blinked and took in her surroundings. "I … I saw the fog …" Suddenly, she felt uncertain about what and how much to say to Megan. She settled on, "I saw fog all over the estate, and when it parted, I saw the way forward."

Megan eyed her suspiciously. She had introduced the child to the crystal, but now she felt shut out, and oddly jealous. "You were deep in a trance."

"Yes," Amy said. "It was lonely and a little frightening," she admitted.

"Perhaps, I can help," Megan offered.

Amy stood and turned to face her. Her eyes seemed older now. "I wish you could, Megan. I really do, but I think …"

"What?" Megan asked, desperate to be let in.

"But I think this is something I must face on my own. You understand, don't you?"

Now Megan softened. She felt at once deflated by being left out, and proud of the child standing before her. "Of course, I understand, Little One. A true divining trance is deeply personal. But I hope that when the time is right, you will turn to me. I will help you, Amy. You must know that."

Amy threw her arms around Megan. "I will, Megan. I promise, I will," Amy said mustering as much sincerity as she could, as she tried to figure out the meaning of the vision.

Megan's bangles jingled in Amy's ear as she patted the girl's head. "And now," she said, "It's time for you to meet Carolyn at the library. You don't want to be late."

As Amy moved to retrieve her book-bag and jacket, Megan untucked the ends of the scarf, and retied them around the crystal. "You must take this," she said, as she and Amy headed into the shop. She put the scarf-wrapped crystal into a bag from the shop.

"But you already gave me the cards. I can't take this too," Amy protested.

"You _must_. It is yours, Little One. You must see that—you must have felt it."

"But …" Amy began.

Megan stayed her with a hand on her shoulder. "Besides, you may need it again."

Amy looked uncomfortable, but said, "Thank you, Megan. I don't know how I'll ever repay you for this, and the cards, and everything you've taught me."

"Everything I'm _teaching _you," Megan corrected her. "You still have much to learn."

Amy smiled, nodded, and headed out of the shop in the direction of the library.

* * *

Megan watched Amy leave. At the window, Amy stopped to wave goodbye. Megan waved back and flashed a warm smile to the girl—her protégé.

Behind her, the squeaky floorboard of the third step from the bottom alerted her to Philip's presence on the stairs. It was clear to her that he'd been waiting there until Amy left the shop.

"I see the Jennings girl was here again," he began.

"_Amy_, Philip. I told you before, her name is Amy," his wife answered without turning to face him.

"Amy, then. She's here almost everyday."

Now, Megan turned to face him. He wore a crisp, white shirt and khaki pants, topped by his double-breasted, navy blue blazer with the gold buttons, that she'd picked out for him. In short, he looked handsome and dressed for an evening out.

He continued, "I'm telling you, Megan, you shouldn't get too attached. She isn't yours; she isn't even a Collins. She's nothing to you—and getting too close will only end in heartbreak." His tone was stiff; his words were pointed.

"She's Romany, like me—blood of my blood!" Megan's eyes flashed.

"Not that _gypsy_ nonsense again, Megan. I'm sick of it!" He began the familiar refrain of a familiar fight. "I thought when we left New York, we'd left all that nonsense behind us."

"We left New York because I fell out of favor with the Romanos—and I fell out of favor because I married you. But now I see that _fate_ brought me to Collinsport. Fate brought me to Amy. She has a once-in-a-lifetime aura, Philip. Her potential is limitless—and fate led me here—to her."

"_Nonsense_," he bellowed then punctuated it with a sneering laugh. "Fate didn't lead you here. We have to stay here until you can pay the Romanos back. Let's not confuse things, Megan." He brushed past her, moving toward the door.

"Where are you going, Philip?" she asked, passion still igniting her voice. At times like these, she longed to tell him the truth of their situation, but what good would it do? She could see now that nothing had changed with him.

"I'm going to Bangor," he spat back. "To earn some money. One of us has to."

Megan softened. "Please don't, Philip. Don't go tonight." A premonition of darkness crept into her chest.

"Don't be ridiculous, Megan. There's a client there with so much money it's burning a hole in his pockets."

"Please, Philip. Not tonight—don't go," she said urgently. "Let's stay in tonight. I'll make us a nice dinner like I used to when we were first married."

He gave her a look of contempt mixed with pity. "Don't wait up," he said definitively. "I'll be home late."

* * *

Megan sat on the tall stool behind the counter of the antiques shop. She stared absently out of the window, as the sun sunk lower and lower in the evening sky. In a few moments, she would need the lights to offset the gloaming. Instead, she drifted to the door, turned the sign to indicate the shop was closed, and locked the door for the evening.

She was feeling her loneliness acutely. She headed upstairs to the apartment, moving as though she was a much older person. It was as though loneliness and life's disappointments had settled into her bones—and times like these she could no longer keep it at bay.

She went first to the kitchen. At each step along the way, she turned on the lights—first at the stairs, another in the hallway, and finally in the kitchen. She pulled the cork from a partially consumed bottle of red wine and poured some into a tumbler. Gone was any thought of a nice dinner. Instead, she assembled a cold dinner of salami, cheese, olives and pickled vegetables. She sat at their kitchen table, picking at her food, and washing down the bites with large pulls at the wine.

When had her life gone so far wrong? She took another drink of wine, laughed aloud, and shook her head. Of course she knew when things changed—everything changed when she fell in love with an outsider. She had chosen to marry Philip rather than one of the Romano brothers. And now, as a result, she'd been cursed. She would never know happiness as long as she was estranged from the people—the community—that raised her.

In the first blissful months, she didn't care. She and Philip were happy, and New York was big enough that she needn't be reminded of what she'd thrown away—she need never return to her own community. She tried to fill her life with enough activity and distraction so as not to feel the loss.

Then the curse began to manifest itself. It was subtle at first. The distance began to grow between her and Philip. She struggled to keep her heritage alive, and Philip dismissed and ridiculed it. She wondered if he had felt that way all along, and if so, why he had married her? She decided to take matters into her own hands. She would try for a baby. Even if Philip were not of her culture, the baby would be.

But no baby was conceived. She tried charms; she humbled herself and secretly went to one of her own for a blessing. Still, no baby came. Then Philip began to drift away. He stayed late at work; went out drinking with his co-workers —anything to be away from her. Then evenings turned into late nights—he would return after she'd gone to bed. Then late nights turned into early mornings. She knew something had to be done. She knew that drastic steps were needed to save her marriage—and given all she'd given up for it, she would fight to save it.

She placed an ad in the classifieds—Tarot readings, palmistry, fortune telling. She became an itinerant soothsayer, using her gift to make money. And she did make money. With each client, her reputation grew. One would recommend her to another. Some wanted weekly readings. One particularly wealthy client brought her into a network of wealthy women looking for the reassurance provided by the cards.

Soon, Megan had a flourishing business—one about which Philip knew nothing. She saved every dollar in service of her plan to save her marriage.

Megan took a long, slow sip of wine, draining the glass. She wanted another. More than that, she didn't want to drink alone. She wanted company. She was tired of being alone. She rinsed her plate and glass and left them in the sink.

She made her way to the bedroom and opened the closet door. So much of her wardrobe consisted of clothes suitable for a day in the shop—sweaters, skirts, and slacks. She rifled through the closet looking for something more lively. Finally she came upon a silk blouse that showed a bit of cleavage, and would tuck nicely into a black mini-skirt from her New York days. Knee-high black boots would complete the look. Once dressed, she turned to the mirror to refresh her make-up.

When she was done, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. It wasn't only Philip who missed New York. She missed it too. But the antiques shop and the quiet life in Collinsport, were the culmination of her plan to pry Philip away from the crowd he'd fallen in with, and back to her.

When he'd come home that fateful night, she'd given the performance of her life. She told him that she'd bought an antiques shop in Maine. She'd done it for them—she'd done it to save their marriage. Philip was understandably furious, but she was desperate.

"How did you? Why did you?" Philip had sputtered.

"I did it for us," Megan told him. "We need to get away from here, Philip—you and me."

"But how—with what money?" he asked, still in some form of shock.

Here, Megan had turned away, as though to avoid her gaze. She willed the tears to come. "I borrowed it from Stella Romano," she'd lied, turning back to face him, tears trailing down her cheeks.

"Megan," Philip said forcefully. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"I did it because I love you, Philip. Remember how it used to be when we first met?" She approached him and touched his cheek. She went on, "We were so in love. This place—this city—has corrupted us, corrupted our marriage, just as it corrupts everything it touches."

"I thought you liked it here. I thought you were happy here. I thought this was your _home_," was his baffled response.

"It is, but I see things clearly now," she told him. Her tears had ceased, and her voice was clear and strong.

Philip smiled then. "In one of your visions?" he asked. It was sarcastic but not particularly biting—it was, in short, Philip being Philip. "So you bought the shop, sight unseen?"

"Well, the seller sent me photographs. You're going to love it, Philip. There's an apartment over the shop, and a full basement that we can develop later. The shop came with all of the furnishings and current stock. But we can turn the stock over—I can run the shop and you can do the buying. You'd like that wouldn't you, Philip?" She was happy to be sharing her excitement about their new life with her skeptical, but softening partner.

"I have to admit," Philip told her, "I've always wanted a shop of my own, but I always thought it would be here. I don't know if I'm cut out for small town life."

"Collinsport is close enough to drive to Bangor whenever you like, and you can easily take the train to Boston," she'd responded. She could see from the look in his eyes that everything would be all right.

* * *

The Blue Whale tavern was what passed for nightlife in Collinsport. It was the town's gathering place. Philip had taken their car to Bangor, so it was to the Blue Whale that Megan went, in search of a drink and perhaps some companionship. Not that she would have driven to Bangor on a night like this one. Fog had started forming as soon as the sun set. Now it formed a thick, damp cloak that covered the town. Still, there wasn't a fog thick enough, or a storm strong enough to deter Collinsport's residents from drinking and socializing at the Blue Whale.

When Megan arrived, the tavern was teeming with life. It was just what she needed. She took off her trench-coat and draped it over the back of a chair at the only empty table. Then she headed to the bar for a drink. She was aware of the eyes that followed her to the bar, watched her while she waited for her gin and tonic, and then as she made her way back to her table. She wondered whether any of the townsmen in possession of those eyes would dare to try their luck with her. And she wondered how she would respond if any of them did.

She took a sip of her drink and cast her gaze out the window. The fog had thickened considerably in the short span of time since she'd left the shop. It lent an air of mystery and romance to all it touched. Megan felt for a moment like a sad romantic, drinking alone and indulging her melancholia.

Then she felt a presence. A whisper of fog entered the tavern as the door opened. Before she could turn to look in a way that was polite, a dark-clad figure appeared at her side.

"May I join you?" he asked. Before she could respond, he added, "I'm usually loathed to intrude on others, but all of the tables are taken, and I prefer a table to standing at the bar."

Megan met his eyes. He smiled and bowed his head to her. A strange excitement welled up deep in her belly. He was courtly—gentlemanly—_rare qualities in men these days_, she thought. "Please do," she gestured with her hand.

He had barely sat down, when the barkeep appeared at their table with a decanter of sherry and a glass. The man nodded his thanks. Megan watched as he filled the glass and took an appreciative sip of the amber liquid. "I'm Megan," she said. She suddenly felt she should have waited for him to indicate a desire for conversation, but it was too late to play coy.

"Megan," he extended his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you. Barnabas Collins," he said.

"_The_ Barnabas Collins?" she asked. Then she recollected how that must sound. She added, "I'm sorry. It's just that I've heard so much about you. You're restoring the Old House on the Collinwood estate to its original condition, aren't you?"

"Why, yes. I see my reputation precedes me," he replied, taking another sip of sherry.

Megan flushed. "No, I apologize. I should introduce myself properly—I'm Megan Todd. My husband, Philip and I bought the antiques shop on Main. We live in the apartment upstairs. A number of customers have mentioned the renovation. So, my interest is professional. I've heard people speculate that the house will be open for tours when the renovation is complete."

"Sadly, that is not my intention. It's my _home_. You understand, I'm sure," he said.

"Yes, of course," she replied, washing down the words with a swig of her drink.

"But now that we're friends," he said, "I would be happy to give you a _private_ tour sometime."

Her face lit up, and she brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "I promise not to appraise anything," she laughed.

"Appraise as much as you like," he responded. "Nothing is for sale, but I do occasionally like to give gifts to special friends."

He was flirting. She was sure of it. Yes, he was old-fashioned, maybe out of practice, but the implications were clear. Summoning the barkeep with a look and a gesture, he bought her another drink.

"And where is your husband this evening?" he asked. "It didn't occur to me to ask whether you were waiting for someone."

"He's visiting a client in Bangor this evening. He won't be back until quite late."

"It's a pity he's missing out on such a lovely companion," he said, taking her in with his eyes.

Megan flushed again deeply. She tried to recover by saying, "I'm surprised you've never visited the shop. We have a number of pieces from the era of the Old House. They might interest you."

"The shop is closed in the evening, and I'm afraid I'm often away during the day."

"Then you're the opposite of my husband," she said with what she hoped would be a seductive smile. "He's often away in the evening." Then an idea crystallized in her mind. "Perhaps I could show you those pieces _now_. I mean if you don't mind accompanying me back to the shop."

"Not only do I not mind, I would welcome it. Besides, it would have been most ungallant of me not to accompany you home on a night like this."

The fog was thick and the street-lamps revealed the moisture it contained. Barnabas helped Megan into her coat. Together they made the short walk back to the antiques shop. Barnabas had threaded her arm through his in another courtly, old-fashioned gesture that gave Megan butterflies.

He carried a cane, though he didn't use it for support and seemed to move without need of it. Perhaps he, like other Collinsport residents, was aware of the rash of animal attacks, and carried it for defense. Whatever the reason, it was a perfect fit with the caped overcoat he wore and his old-fashioned, gracious manners. All of it rendered him attractive in a way she struggled to comprehend.

_What are you doing?_ She asked herself when they arrived at the shop—then invited him in.

* * *

Barnabas stood just inside the entryway, as Megan disappeared into the small shop. What little his eyes could make out was illuminated by the streetlights beyond the shop's picture window. A moment later, the room glowed with a fresh source of light from the rear of the shop. Then Megan emerged. Her auburn hair was backlit; her features softened. Barnabas thought she was lovely—different from the innocent purity of Josette, or the fierce sparkle of Angelique. Megan was something more modern—open, defiant, hungry even. He could see it now that she was in her own environment.

She ushered him into the shop. "I don't want to turn on the lights in the shop—someone might get the wrong impression and think that we're open in the evening. Maybe we should—open in the evening sometimes," she added. "Then you could see everything the shop has to offer." She smiled at him.

"I would like that—very much," Barnabas said. "But in the meantime …"

"Right. I have a couple of pieces that might interest you. This way." She gestured him toward the office, the room from which the light emanated.

"So, you live upstairs," he observed in a loud voice so as to be heard by her in the shop.

"Yes," she called back.

"The shop has a lower level as well, if memory serves," he said when she appeared in the office doorway.

"You're familiar with the shop?" Megan asked.

"Yes, in a way. You see all of the shops along this stretch of Main were constructed at the same time. Each has the same features and similar floor-plans."

"We hope to develop it someday, maybe turn it into an antiquarian bookstore."

"What a good idea," Barnabas said.

Megan licked her lips in an unconscious gesture. "These are two of the pieces I thought might interest you," she said as she recovered her composure.

One was a small pottery salt pot—probably from the Great House pantry, circa 1796. The other he recognized immediately. It was so evocative, he nearly said, "Mother" aloud. He opened the locket. Inside was a lock of his father's hair—still preserved beneath the glass, still brown, as it had been in Joshua's youth. His mother had worn it when she was young—before the love had leached from their union.

"It belonged to Naomi Collins," he said with a dispirited sigh.

"How do you know that?" Megan registered her surprise.

Barnabas recollected himself. "Because, I've seen it in portraits of her at the Old House."

"I should like to see them sometime," Megan said.

"And I would be happy to show them to you sometime," Barnabas said.

"So, you're a local historian as well as an antiques connoisseur," Megan beamed at him.

"I'm a connoisseur of a great many things," Barnabas told her, taking her in with his eyes.

Since he'd entered the shop, Barnabas's better nature had warred with his baser animal needs. Megan was a strong, lovely woman—and clearly a lonely woman. And Barnabas too was lonely—lonely and tormented. He had gone into town seeking only one thing—physical sustenance. Sustenance of the kind provided by a chance encounter. Sustenance provided by a trusting woman, or when need be, by a man instead. He found something else—something different. He found another lonely soul—one he felt certain would welcome communing with him. She would provide the sustenance he needed, and in the process, she would never be lonely again.

He set the locket down on the desk beside him. "Megan, could we go upstairs for a nightcap?" Barnabas asked. It made it feel more like an act of seduction to him than simply taking her then and there in the harsh light of the office.

"I thought you'd never ask," Megan said. "This way."

Barnabas followed her up the stairs and into the small living room of their apartment. Once there, instead of going to the liquor cabinet, Megan turned to him and slipped her arms around his neck. She drew him into a kiss. He had not expected her to be so bold. He was accustomed to someone more malleable and pliant. He found it excited him. It was the way he thought it would be to finally take Angelique and truly make her, his.

He pulled back and looked at her. Her smile invited him to ask for more. He returned the smile, and moved in, not for another kiss, but to take what he needed and desperately wanted from her. She saw his fangs for only a split second before he sunk them deep in her neck beneath a spray of auburn hair. She didn't resist, nor did she yield. It was something else—something he'd never felt before. He admired her spirit in that moment of surrender. She allowed him to take what he needed—what he wanted. When she collapsed in his arms it was from blood loss alone, not shock, fear, or submission—yet, she was completely under his thrall.


	5. Chapter 5

A new day dawns on the Great Estate of Collinwood. A chance encounter between two lonely people forged a new relationship. But the unusual, secret bond consummated in bloodlust threatens the happiness of a young girl. Amy Jennings, just as she is beginning to put her faith in her mentor, will find that she must rely on her own devices once again.

* * *

When Carolyn pulled the car around to the front drive, David and Amy were already waiting for her, dressed for school with their book-bags and lunch boxes. It was a rare morning. They no longer argued about whose turn it was to sit in the front seat. Amy no longer cared to argue about it. David always sat in the front-seat, and Amy found she was now content to sit in the back and watch the familiar scenery pass as she looked out the window.

"Some of the boys from school have an after-school club, and they're meeting at Jimmy's house today. Jimmy has a clubhouse, and they asked me to come along today. So, can I? Please Carolyn," David asked.

"I don't know," Carolyn began. "What does this club do?"

"I don't know exactly," David answered. "But Jimmy's mom is there. She even makes them a snack. _Please_ Carolyn. I'll meet you back at the library and everything," David pleaded. "The girls have a club too. Don't they, Amy?"

"How should I know?" Amy said, acerbic but cool.

"You'd have more friends like I do, if you didn't spend every afternoon at the spooky antiques shop," David observed in a superior tone.

"They're only your friends because their dads work for your dad," Amy shot back.

Though Amy couldn't see it, David's face crumpled and he fought back tears.

"Amy! What a mean thing to say," Carolyn rebuked her angrily. Regaining her composure, she went on, "You've changed since Maggie left, and not for the better."

"I understand why Maggie went away," Amy said. "And I don't blame her."

"I suppose you blame Quentin now," Carolyn said, no longer angry, but an edge still in her voice.

"No. I _understand_. I don't blame Maggie and I don't blame Quentin," Amy said emphatically.

"Well, you've certainly changed your tune," Carolyn sniffed.

" I have. I can see now that Maggie must have had a really good reason for leaving," Amy said. "Collinsport is her home, and she wouldn't just leave unless…" Her voice trailed off leaving the thought unspoken. Then her voice changed, "I'm sorry, David. I shouldn't have said those mean things to you."

"It's all right, Amy," David returned with unexpected graciousness. "Sometimes, I think the same thing—that they're only friends with me because I'm a Collins."

Amy had known—she sensed his insecurity and vulnerability. In the heat of the moment, she had used that knowledge to hurt him. She felt genuinely bad about it. "Some of them are like that, but I think most of the boys really like you, David. You're lucky that way."

"The other girls would like you too, if you didn't …" David stopped mid-sentence.

"Go on," Amy prodded him. "You can say it—if I didn't sit by myself at lunch and read, or go the antiques shop after school."

"Why do you like going there so much, Amy?" David asked in a plaintive voice.

"Megan … well, Megan makes me feel like family," Amy said wistfully.

"We're your family, sort of." David pressed the point. "Don't we make you feel like family?"

"Of course you do. It's just different with Megan. She didn't know Chris or Joe. So, she's not doing it to help them out, or because she feels like she has to, or because she feels sorry for me. She just wants to get to know me. It's hard to explain," Amy said. She wasn't ready to tell him about her heritage, or about the fortunetelling and divining techniques that Megan was teaching her, or how in a strange way being around Megan made her realize how much she wanted Maggie to come home. After a moment, she added, "You don't know how lucky you are, David. You've always had your family around you."

They drove the rest of the way to school in silence, but it seemed to Carolyn that Amy was somehow different. She couldn't put her finger on it, but it was as though Amy had suddenly matured—as though she'd had an emotional growth spurt, leaving David behind.

* * *

That same morning, on the great estate of Collinwood, Dr. Julia Hoffman was having her morning coffee in the drawing room. The morning was cool and damp, and wisps of fog still clung to the estate. Julia topped her trademark tweed skirt with a heavy wool sweater. She had had a solitary breakfast in the family dining room—the rest of the estate's residents having already scattered to their day's activities or still in bed luxuriating in a life that afforded such habits. Carolyn, David and Amy were the former, and Roger and Elizabeth were the latter. Julia was somewhere in between. She had nowhere to be at the moment, and yet was not given to the customs of the idle well-to-do.

Julia was acutely feeling her lack of occupation. She wanted to be helping Barnabas—or at least, she wanted the activity of being in a lab conducting research. For the moment, she was relegated to searching medical journals for approaches that seemed promising, knowing that she didn't have the means to test any of the resulting theories. She was, in short, frustrated.

She'd taken a cup of coffee—her third of the morning—to the drawing room, the size of which permitted better pacing and thus, better thinking. Soon, when she depleted her coffee, she would turn her attention to an article describing a form of symbiosis based on the recipient's need for a specific blood factor, and the donor's surfeit of the same factor. The article covered two case studies—extremely rare and impossible to replicate. Then again, any study was impossible to replicate without a lab—even a halfway decent one like she'd once had at the Old House. She sighed as she reached the dregs of her coffee.

Just as she decided she could delay no longer, the phone rang. Sometimes, about this time of morning, Dr. Fisher from the Windcliff Sanitarium would call before going on rounds, to consult about a case. It would be a welcome distraction.

Setting her cup aside and crossing the room, Julia called out into the foyer, "I'll get it, Mrs. Johnson." Then, lifting the handset, "Hello?"

"Good morning. Is this the Collinwood Estate?"

"Yes …" Julia dragged out the single word response.

"Is Dr. Hoffman available?" came the unfamiliar voice.

It was clearly not Windcliff. "This is Dr. Hoffman," Julia confirmed.

"Dr. Hoffman, my name is Megan Todd. My husband and I recently bought the antiques shop in town on Main."

"Yes?" Julia drawled again, wondering what the stranger wanted.

"Amy Jennings has mentioned you. She's been helping out around the shop after school. Well, mostly visiting with me after school …"

"I don't see how …" Julia began.

Megan interrupted, "She told me that you're a woman of taste, to say nothing of unique interests. I've acquired an antique caduceus pin. Of course, I thought of you."

"Oh?" Julia said. "It does sound like an interesting piece," she added.

"Since you're a friend of Amy's, I thought I would give you an opportunity to look at it before I put it on display in the shop. Of course, if you're interested in buying it …" Megan let the implication remain unspoken.

"I'll be in town later, perhaps I can stop by," Julia said.

"We open shortly. The best time would be when we first open, before the shop gets busy," Megan said.

"Well …" Julia dragged out the word as she looked at her watch. In truth she had no specific plans other than brooding about her boredom and lack of efficacy. Perhaps, after visiting the shop, she could stop in and see Eliot Stokes. Even if she didn't confide in him about her experiments on behalf of Barnabas, his company would be welcome. "Very well," she concluded at last. "I'll stop by in … let's say, 30 minutes."

"Excellent," Megan said. "I'm looking forward to meeting you, Dr. Hoffman."

* * *

Julia easily found the small shop on Main. She'd passed it dozens of times without feeling any particular need to stop in, or even peruse its display window. Now, she peered through the window and was assaulted by an odd assortment of clutter. A trained eye would be necessary to sort out the gems from the junk. The shop was dimly lit, making her wonder whether it was open. But the sign in the window of the door indicated it was.

The tinkle of a small bell above the door announced her entrance. No one was about. "Hello?" Julia ventured. She started to look around. After a moment, she called again, "Hello?"

"Hello. You must be Dr. Hoffman," a voice said from behind her.

Julia turned to meet it. "Yes, and you must be Mrs. Todd."

The tall auburn-haired woman was entering by way of a stairway at the rear of the shop. "Please call me, Megan," she said.

Julia quickly assessed her. Her clothes—a long, belted sweater and fashionable wool slacks—were more cosmopolitan than one typically saw in Collinsport. And she added unique touches—she wore several bangle bracelets; a long, Isadora Duncan style scarf was tied tightly around her neck, then flowed down past her waist.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Dr. Hoffman."

"Please call me, Julia," the doctor said, still assessing. "You have many interesting pieces in the shop," Julia continued. "But you called me about something specific—an antique caduceus pin. I'd like to see it if I may."

Megan flushed. "I'm sorry Dr. Hoffman—Julia—I've brought you here under false pretenses."

"Oh?" Julia said with an arched eyebrow, already formulating a theory.

"Yes. You see my husband, Philip, was here." At this point, Megan's hands went to her neck. She fiddled with the scarf, making sure it was pulled tight. "And I couldn't speak openly."

"Oh? And where is he now?" Julia asked.

By now, the two women had moved toward one another, and had met in the small clearing in front of the shop's counter. "I sent him to run a couple of errands," Megan replied.

Julia eyed her narrowly. "I see—so that we can speak _openly_. Very well, Megan, but first," Julia said. "Take off the scarf."

"How dare you speak to me like that!" Megan hissed, but then she drew back her head proudly and pulled the scarf aside.

Two fresh puncture marks confirmed Julia's suspicions. "You were going to have to tell me sometime."

"Perhaps, but not like this," she said as she wound the scarf around her neck.

"Why am I really here, Megan?" Julia demanded.

"Barnabas said you were looking for a private place to work. He thought the basement of the shop would meet your needs. So, he asked me to show it to you—_privately_."

"I see," Julia said. "And what exactly did Barnabas tell you about my work?"

"Nothing, really—only that you require privacy." Now Megan's voice softened to the familiar croon of one in thrall to a vampire. "He said I didn't need to know more than that—that I must trust him."

"Yes, that sounds like him," Julia said in an irritated tone. Megan's displeased face was her only response. "Fine—show me," Julia continued, her tone unchanged.

"This way," Megan gestured for the doctor to follow her. "We must hurry, before Philip gets back."

Julia followed Megan to the entrance to the basement. At the top of the stairs, Megan flipped a light switch. A dull light provided scant illumination. It emanated from the basement below. Both women were careful to use the handrail along the dark steps. At the bottom of the steps, the basement opened out before them. The ceiling was low. There was dirty and worn sub-flooring in place of a real floor. The only light was provided by a single bulb, fixed in place by a piece of conduit, centered on one of the ceiling beams.

As Julia took it in with her eyes, she asked, "If you don't mind my asking, how am I going to work here if you're so concerned that your husband might find out?"

"Philip is often away—especially in the evenings," Megan replied.

It was dank, dirty, and dim, but it would have to do, was Julia's assessment. "I'll have to set up some equipment down here," she remarked. A succession of logistical questions rapidly crossed her mind. "How am I going to get the equipment in here without arousing suspicion?" she said aloud, but mostly to herself.

"That way," Megan said, with a wave of her hand toward the far-end of the room.

Julia walked further into the room until she stood beneath the light and peered beyond its small ring of illumination to the far wall. There a narrow staircase led up to a door.

As though reading her mind, Megan continued, "It leads to the service alley that runs behind the shops. They're well used in the morning, but by late afternoon and at night, there's no one about."

"Good. That will work," Julia mused as she continued to survey her new laboratory.

"I must get back to the shop now," Megan said.

The two women retreated back the way they'd come. At the top of the stairs, Megan extinguished the light and locked the door. The shop was still empty—no customers and no Philip. "Wait here," Megan said and disappeared into the office. When she returned, she handed Julia a key. "It's for the rear entrance."

"Are you sure your husband won't find out?" Julia asked.

"Leave Philip to me," Megan responded confidently.

Now, a few struggling rays of sunlight found their way to the shop's window. Julia could see now how pale Megan's complexion had grown, even in the short span of her visit. Megan stood behind the counter. She covered her eyes and turned away from the window.

"You should try to get some rest, Megan—preferably in a dark room."

"I can't leave the shop unattended." She leaned on the counter for support.

"You've lost a lot of blood," Julia began.

"Ahem," Megan cleared her throat loudly just as the bell above the door tinkled.

Julia turned to see a tall, handsome man enter the shop. He was impeccably dressed in a brown sport-coat over a light blue v-neck sweater. His curly dark hair seemed arranged rather than styled, as though he visited his barber often to keep it just so.

"You must be Dr. Hoffman," he said advancing toward Julia and extending his hand. "Philip Todd. A pleasure to meet you."

"Oh …" Megan slumped to the floor.

"Megan!" Philip called out.

Julia moved at once and knelt beside Megan. She quickly tightened the scarf, before Philip joined her, looking over her shoulder. "Is she all right?"

While Julia checked Megan's pulse, the younger woman began coming out of the faint. Megan emitted a small, strangled groan, then tried to sit up. "Take it easy, Megan," Julia said. "Did you hit your head?"

"What happened?" Megan asked, still woozy.

"You fainted!" Philip crouched beside Julia. "Do you know what caused her to faint?" he asked the doctor.

"Low blood pressure, I think," Julia said. "It happens sometimes."

"But she's always been so healthy," Philip persisted.

""I'm all right, Philip." Then to Julia, "And no, I didn't hit my head—not hard anyway."

"I think we should get you upstairs to rest," Julia told her.

"_Upstairs_?" Philip was incredulous. "Don't you think we should take her to the hospital?"

"I don't want to go to the hospital, Philip," Megan said fiercely.

"Megan," Philip began, clearly taken aback by his wife's vehement response.

Julia intervened. "It's fortunate I'm here," she said. "I can take care of your wife. I think she would benefit from a transfusion. I can make arrangements to do it here. I've done it at Collinwood under similar circumstances," Julia told him. "I think a unit of blood will do her a world of good."

"Thank you, Dr. Hoffman." Philip seemed genuinely grateful.

"Do you know her blood type?" Julia asked.

"A positive," he told her. "We both had blood tests before we were married."

"Where can I make a phone call?" Julia asked with the kind of efficiency that characterized her when her physician persona took over.

"Through there," Philip gestured toward the office.

"Good. In the meantime, help her upstairs and make her comfortable."

Julia went into the office and dialed the Collinsport Hospital. She knew she could use the imprimatur of being the Collins's personal physician to request whatever she wanted and know that it would be attended to. She had to invoke the Collins name, first with the duty nurse, then with the attending doctor, in order to get her needs met. But in the end, the hospital agreed to send over the equipment and the unit of A positive blood she needed.

She had just hung up when she heard a commotion upstairs. Philip's voice was raised and Megan was shrieking. Julia sighed and headed upstairs. All of the rooms were off of a central hallway. She moved toward the open door—the one from which the voices emanated.

"Don't touch me," Megan shrieked.

"Megan, be reasonable," Philip shouted back.

Julia entered to see the husband and wife duo facing each other, inches apart, faces red with fury and exasperation. "What is going on?" she asked.

"I just want to be left alone," Megan said.

Philip's affect calmed. He suddenly looked deflated, like a balloon with a slow leak. "I was just trying to make her comfortable—to get her undressed and into bed to rest. Just like you said, Dr. Hoffman." Philip appealed to Julia for support with both words and his eyes.

Julia at once took charge of the situation. "Philip, I'm going to need my medical bag. I left it in my car." She retrieved her handbag from the armchair where she'd hastily left it upon entering the bedroom. She found her car-keys and handed them to Philip. "It's the blue sedan parked just outside the shop."

With Philip out of the way, Julia turned to Barnabas's blood-slave. Before she could say anything, Megan began, "He was trying to take off my scarf—he _mustn't_ do that."

"Yes, I understand, Megan, but you can't keep it from him forever," Julia said in a dispassionate voice.

"Not forever—only until Barnabas makes me as he is. Then I will make Philip as I am—and he will want me again—_belong_ to me again," Megan said in a dreamy voice.

Julia saw in Megan's eyes and words one of the qualities, which marked those in Barnabas's thrall. It was always the same—it was always either fear or delusion. In Megan's case it was delusion. Julia shook her head, and guided Megan toward the bed. The poor deluded woman had no idea what awaited her—the slow ebbing away of her life as she provided sustenance—literal and emotional—to feed Barnabas's needs.

"Do you have a turtleneck sweater?" Julia asked. Megan nodded. "You should put that on," Julia told her.

A few moments later when Philip reentered the room carrying Julia's medical bag, he found his wife tucked into bed. Dr. Hoffman was sitting beside her. The doctor sent Philip away to wait downstairs. She checked Megan's pulse and respiration, and found nothing unexpected. "I'll be back later to give you a transfusion," Julia said. "Try to get some rest."

When Julia descended the stairs, Philip Todd was waiting for her. "I can't thank you enough," he said. "How can I ever repay your kindness, Dr. Hoffman?"

"You can start by calling me Julia," she said. Then turning to more practical concerns, "The hospital will be delivering the transfusion equipment in a little while. In the meantime, I'm going to go over to the Inn for some coffee."

With his wife's condition no longer precarious, Philip turned to practical concerns of his own. "I was supposed to go to Bangor this afternoon, but I guess I'll have to stay here—to mind the shop—and Megan," he groused.

Julia could now see the situation in its totality. Here was another squalid mess of a marriage into which Barnabas had, probably unknowingly, inserted himself. As was always the case when helping her friend, Julia was at war with herself over what to do. Undoubtedly, their marriage was fractured before Barnabas arrived on the scene, and Philip's desire to be elsewhere could serve a useful purpose. On the other hand, were Philip to stay and actually tend to his wife, he might discover that something more than poor health was at work, and he might take her away—take her someplace safe.

In the end, Julia sighed and said, "You should go to Bangor, as planned. I'll stay with her until you get back. I have to stay through the transfusion anyway."

Philip brightened noticeably. "Really, Dr. Hoffman? I mean, Julia. You're a lifesaver." He went on in that way that people do when they believe that embellishment will make a lie more believable, "There's a client there—he can't make the trip to Collinsport to visit the shop, so I take antiques there that I know would interest him." He babbled on, "Small pieces of course, jewelry and the like, but his patronage is important to our business."

Julia interrupted, "Of course, I understand." She didn't state the obvious, that the client would still be there tomorrow or the next day—and his wife needed him now. Instead, she tacitly did what Barnabas needed, and left Philip and Megan Todd to their fate.

* * *

When school let out that afternoon, Amy practically ran to the antiques shop. She had so many questions she wanted to ask Megan that day. So many, that she had taken a sheet of notebook paper out of her binder and written them all down during the lunch recess. She felt ready to move from fortunetelling and divination, to charms and curses. Now, as her plan to bring Maggie home, back to Collinwood where she and Quentin belonged, began to take shape, she would need this knowledge—and Megan's help.

Amy traversed the distance between school and the antiques shop in a brisk walking pace. The sooner she arrived, the more time she would have to spend with Megan. But disappointment met her when she arrived. The shop was closed. Amy pressed her nose against the door and peered inside. No lights were on, and no one was around. The sign clearly indicated the shop was closed.

Amy's disappointment was palpable. This was the first time the shop had been closed. _Where's Megan_? Amy wondered. _Something must be wrong or she wouldn't close the shop_. She wished Megan had left a note—but she didn't. When neither Megan nor Philip walked by or answered her knock, she knew waiting was pointless. Amy stood for a couple of minutes deciding what to do. There was only one thing to do, go the library, and visit the occult section to see what books they had on charms and curses.

Passing the circulation desk on her way to the occult section, she gave the young librarian staffing it a friendly wave. "Hello, Amy. It's nice to see you back," the librarian said with a smile.

"Miss Gold," Amy nodded her acknowledgement, then headed to the stacks.

By now, she knew every part of the library. She could have asked the librarian to help her zero in on her topic, but she preferred to browse the section of relevant books. After all, she might come across something related that might be useful.

She ran her finger along the spines, reading the titles. When she found something interesting, she would take the book out and peruse the table of contents. It was a slow process, especially when she could learn so much more by simply speaking to Megan and spending time with her. Megan had told her that there was "book learning," and then there were the lessons passed on from one generation to the next—those were the best.

"Hello, Amy," a distinctive voice greeted her.

"Professor Stokes! I'm surprised to see you here," the girl said. She hadn't noticed him until that moment.

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Because I bet this library is small compared to the one at the university," she said gamely.

"Indeed," he replied. "But every library has its forte, whether it's being a treasure trove of knowledge, or a welcoming place to study after school. In this case, it's Miss Gold. She keeps an eye out and let's me know when something interesting crosses her desk." He showed Amy a small volume he was holding. "Today, she came across this fascinating first hand account of life in 19th century Collinsport. But I see that you are interested in my area of expertise—the occult. If I'm not prying, may I ask if you're looking for something particular?"

Amy drew a deep breath and considered. There was something about the professor that made her want to trust him. Perhaps it was because he'd been Maggie's special friend—someone _she_ trusted and relied on. "Can you keep a secret, Professor Stokes?" Amy asked confidentially.

"Of course. You can count on me."

"I recently learned that I'm of Romany heritage, and I want to learn everything I can about it. Right now, I'm looking for how they use charms and curses," Amy told him.

"I see," the professor said. He glanced at the bookshelf, removed a volume from the shelf, and handed it to her. "This one has some useful background information, but I have some others—including an encyclopedia of sorts on an array of charms, blessings and curses—not just of the Romany, but of other cultures as well. Perhaps you'd like to borrow it." It was rare for him to make loans from his personal collection, but he trusted the bookish girl to take good care of it.

Amy's face lit up. For the first time since she'd left school, she felt some satisfaction. "May I?" she enthused.

"If you can accompany me home, I'll get it for you now," he said.

The professor waited while she checked out the book he'd recommended. Then they made their way together down the street and around the corner to the street where the professor lived. Along the way, he asked about her heritage and how she'd come to learn of it. Though he was unaccustomed to speaking with children her age, he did his best to seem avuncular, and not like an interrogator. Still, he managed to gather significant pieces of information.

When they arrived at his apartment, he showed Amy into the sitting room. "Wow," she said. "Are all of these about the occult?" she asked, staring wide-eyed at his packed bookcases.

"Most of them are, but even I indulge the occasional novel."

"You must have as many as the library does! They only have two bookcases devoted to the occult," she observed.

"Well, it's my life's work—my passion," he said proudly.

He went to the bookcase and began perusing the books in search of the book he'd promised her. Amy was at his elbow, following along looking at all of the titles. He had books devoted to witchcraft, exorcism, mysterious phenomena; ones from different countries and cultures; some with titles in languages Amy didn't recognize or understand. Some of the books had no titles on the spine.

When he reached the end of the second bookcase, the professor made a small noise—half hum, half question. "Well," he said. "It doesn't seem to be here. Perhaps, it's on the bookcase in the other room."

"You have even more books?" Amy was all amazement.

"Oh yes—here and in my office at the university," he responded proudly. "But I'm almost certain the one I had in mind for you is here. I'll be right back."

Amy continued browsing the professor's collection of books. She took one or two from the shelf, peeked inside, and then returned them to their proper place. At the end of one of the shelves, she noticed a collection of composition books like the ones they were required to use at school. Amy took one from the shelf. The subject block on the cover was blank, but when she opened it, the first page read "On were-creatures and other shape-shifting beings." She opened a second one—"Collinsport—vortex or vector?" Amy wondered what it meant. They were the professor's hand-written notes. Her hand seemed to have a will of its own. She took a third one from the shelf and opened it—"Angelique—a case study in sorcery and witchcraft." There were pages and pages of notes.

From the other room, Amy heard the professor muttering. She returned two of the three composition books to the shelf. The third, she hastily shoved into her book-bag. "Ah, here it is," she heard Professor Stokes say. Amy felt flushed with embarrassment. At some point, he would realize it was missing. He would realize she'd betrayed his trust. Or maybe she could read it and return it before he knew it was missing.

A moment later, he rejoined her in the sitting room. He proudly handed her the book. "I think you'll find it useful and informative," he said. "There may be some terminology that requires a dictionary, but I'm sure you're up to the task." Then he added, "And of course, I'm happy to discuss it with you, if you'd like."

"Thank you, Professor Stokes." Guilt burned Amy's insides as she took the proffered book. She'd acted on impulse; she hadn't thought it through, and the professor's generosity made it sting even more. But the professor's notes on Angelique might be invaluable—so it was probably worth the risk, especially knowing what the crystal revealed.

* * *

Later that night, when the Great House was quiet and still, Amy snuggled into bed and continued her quest by the light of her flashlight—page by page deciphering the professor's notebook.


	6. Chapter 6

As a week passes on the great estate of Collinwood, patterns of behavior become entrenched. Some who call the estate their home seek to hide their true motives and intentions; others, no matter their desires, cannot obscure their true selves or their true aims. One young resident of the Great House is learning daily who she truly is, and about her own motives and desires. Like sunlight and shadow, Amy Jennings is learning that in order to succeed, light and dark must learn to coexist in one's nature.

* * *

Amy was waiting, far from patiently, in the foyer when Carolyn descended the stairs.

Roger Collins had taken his son, David, to the cannery and the mill, and then to make the rounds of the estate by car, as was his habit at least once a month. To date, he'd been remiss that month. So he'd made the unusual decision to do his monthly rounds on a Saturday, and the even more unusual gesture to take his son along with him. It was an unspoken acknowledgement of his recent neglect of his son, in favor of his cousin's enchanting fiancé.

Carolyn planned a parallel day for her and Amy. They would drive to Bangor for a day of shopping followed by high tea in a charming, old-fashioned tea-shop there. Since finding out about their day out, Amy had been alive with anticipation and excitement. It was a rare treat for her—and a rare opportunity.

She silently watched the same scenery go by that she saw daily on her way to school, waiting until Collinsport was behind them. When they were on their way on the highway to Bangor, she began. "Do you still miss him?" Amy asked.

"What? Miss who?" a flustered Carolyn replied.

"Tony." Amy went on innocently, "I was just thinking about him, because we passed the building where he used to have his office, on our way out of town. And it got me thinking that you must miss him."

Carolyn turned and glanced at Amy. Her blond hair followed her eyes fanning out, first to the right, and then back to left, as her eyes quickly returned to the road ahead. She sighed. "Of course, I miss him."

"Then why don't you ask him to come back?" Amy asked, willing her voice to sound guileless.

"It's not that simple, Amy. He has to want to come back—and even then, he might not want to come back to _me_."

"It's _her_ fault, isn't it?"

Carolyn pulled her lower lip between her teeth, but said nothing.

Amy went on, "It's _Angelique's_ fault, isn't it? You two were happy before she came here."

Carolyn sighed again. "Like I said, it's not that simple. It's not like passing notes about boys you like," she said irritably.

"You're right," Amy said. She let a couple of moments elapse before she began again. "I don't understand Angelique. She's going to marry Barnabas, but everyone could see the way she chased after Tony, and now Mr. Collins—_Roger_ Collins, I mean."

A long silence settled between them.

* * *

Carolyn's thoughts led her back to the last time she saw Tony. He had canceled a date with her—yet again. This time, she decided to drive to his office to confront him. When she arrived, the door was ajar and she could hear voices inside. She would have been within her rights to bust in on them. Instead, she crept like a thief to the door. Placing a gentle hand on it, she opened it a bit wider and looked in.

They were in each other's arms—Tony and _Angelique_, who cajoled him to accept some offer; when he demurred, she taunted him for being weak.

Carolyn knew she should leave—sneaking out the way she'd come in—or storming out—it didn't matter. But instead, she stood transfixed in the doorway. Instead, she heard Tony—_her Tony_—beg Angelique to be done with him, to free him. But it wasn't her Tony. _Her_ Tony would never beg like that. Her Tony was smart and strong. He didn't care that she was a Collins scion in Collinsport. When he told her so, it made him that much more attractive to her. Carolyn didn't understand how Angelique had changed her Tony into this pale imitation.

Then he saw her over Angelique's shoulder. "Carolyn!" He released himself from Angelique's arms. "Carolyn …" Angelique turned to face her—a harsh form of mirth in her eyes. Angelique laughed. "Stop it," Tony said, pushing Angelique aside. "Carolyn, wait." She could hear Tony call, as she fled. Angelique's merciless laugh rang in her ears, even as she willed the memory to go away.

* * *

A bend in the road that demanded Carolyn's full attention, recalled her to the car and the conversation she'd left hanging. Carolyn began, "I don't understand her either, Amy. Maybe if I did, I could reason with her, find out what she really wants—maybe even get her to leave the Collins family alone. But for whatever reason, she's decided to insinuate herself where she is not wanted—and I don't think there's anything we can do about it."

"What if there was?" Amy asked.

"Amy," Carolyn began. "This isn't a game. We're talking about people's lives."

"I know that," Amy said in a calm voice that resonated with new maturity. "Angelique is the one who's playing with people's lives—you, Tony, Roger … Maggie and Quentin … even Barnabas. She must be stopped."

Carolyn made a humorless chuckle. "And how do you propose to do that?"

"I'm not exactly sure yet," Amy answered.

"Well, when you know …" Carolyn began lightly.

"You're not taking me seriously," Amy interrupted, irritation in her voice. "I need you to take me seriously, Carolyn."

Now Carolyn shot Amy a quick appraising glance. There was something in Amy's affect that hadn't been there before. It was more than just her serious tone. Given everything that she'd been through, the girl had always had an air of seriousness about her. This was something different. Amy had taken on new gravitas that belied her young age. She was ripe with portent—but of what, Carolyn couldn't say.

"All right, Amy," Carolyn said, trying to match the girl's tone. "If you find a way to convince Angelique to leave Collinwood, I'll help you. When the time comes, just tell me what you need me to do."

* * *

Elizabeth Collins Stoddard descended the stairs of her ancestral family home, Collinwood. Her ancestor, Joshua Collins had overseen the building of the rambling mansion in 1795. It had been home to every generation of the Collins family ever since. It had also been the locus of strange, inexplicable phenomena that had plagued her family for at least that long.

The house was preternaturally quiet as she crossed the foyer and entered the drawing room. On a typical weekday, she'd be dressed, coiffed, and attending to business, either in the library or at the small writing table in the drawing room. But weekends were more fluid. Today she eschewed business attire in favor of a caftan of emerald green silk and matching mules.

She brought with her a mystery novel—her secret passion—to the drawing room. Before settling in on the davenport, she went to the liquor cabinet and poured a sherry. She knew it was early in the day to indulge this particular vice, but no one was around to challenge her. Only she and Mrs. Johnson were in the Great House, and Mrs. Johnson was elbow-deep in polishing silver.

She settled herself on the davenport. Before opening her book, she took a sip of sherry, and allowed herself to enjoy this moment of normalcy. They were rare enough at Collinwood. It seemed to her to be a brief respite from the usual toll of the family curse. _If only_, she thought. If only she could get her brother to see the error of his ways … if only she could get him to see how his behavior was sure to be seen by others … if only she could detach him from the pernicious influence of Angelique. Then she could truly enjoy this period of relative calm and contentment.

She took another deep sip of sherry, leaned back, and closed her eyes. She could not understand women like Angelique, who was engaged to marry Barnabas and would become the mistress of the Old House, but still she wanted more. Or perhaps, wanted something—_someone_—different. First there were rumors about Barnabas's fiancé and Tony Peterson. Then before she attached herself to Roger, Angelique was seen around town with Professor Stokes. But Professor Stokes was not Roger _Collins_. It was easy to understand why a lonely bachelor could be taken in by the likes of Angelique. But Elizabeth could neither understand nor forgive her brother's foolishness.

She opened her eyes and then the book to the marked page. She turned her mind to the book and tried to banish thoughts of Angelique's perfidy and Roger's self-delusion. Before she'd completed a single page, she heard the front door of the Great House open, followed by voices in the foyer.

"I said I'm sorry, David," she heard her brother say.

"I knew it was too good to be true," David said, disappointment evident in his voice.

A moment later, they were in the entrance to the drawing room. "What is it? What's wrong?" Elizabeth asked, bookmarking the page, closing the book and setting it aside, but not rising from the couch.

The dejected David moved into the room and stood awkwardly in front of his aunt. "He got a call from Angelique and now he has to go," David said.

"_Angelique_?" Now Elizabeth was on her feet. "Roger, what is he talking about?"

"She called me at the cannery," Roger replied haughtily. "She needs my help."

"She called you at the cannery," Elizabeth parroted. "How did she even know that you'd be there? And why didn't she ask her _fiancé_ for help?"

Roger flushed deeply. Before he could muster a response, Elizabeth turned to her nephew, "David, why don't you go and see if Mrs. Johnson left any cookies in the cookie jar?"

"You're just trying to get rid of me," David said.

"David …" Elizabeth began in a stern tone.

"Fine, I'll go," David interrupted. As he left the room, the set of his shoulders and the expression on his face communicated his displeasure.

Once David was out of the room, Elizabeth turned on Roger. "Well?" she asked. "How did she know you'd be at the cannery today?"

"Clearly, I mentioned it to her," Roger said indignantly.

"Do you tell her all of your plans?" Elizabeth asked rhetorically. "What is so important that she had to disrupt your day with David? And why can't she call Barnabas for help?" Elizabeth continued her barrage.

"She's in Bar Harbor and having car trouble," Roger spat at his sister. "Barnabas is out of town. She considers me a _friend_," Roger concluded.

"And what do you know about car trouble? Doesn't she belong to the Automobile Club?" Elizabeth continued fuming.

"Really, Liz," Roger began. "I don't understand your attitude toward her."

"Don't you? People in town are gossiping about you two, saying such dreadful things."

"Let them!" Roger stormed. "Since when did you care what the townspeople in Collinsport think of us? I certainly don't! I'm still a _Collins_, in a town that owes its name and its livelihood to the Collins family. I don't have to explain myself or my actions to those who gossip." Finding his sister at a loss for words, he continued, "Besides, it's strictly platonic." But his face colored deeply at this latter declaration.

"Evidently," Elizabeth said. The intended irony was not lost on her brother.

"In any case, I told her I would go to her aid. I can't keep her waiting." He turned to leave then hesitated and turned back to face his still angry sister. "I'm sure after her travails, Angelique would appreciate a nice meal. We'll dine there—so, I'll be home quite late—if at all," he added pointedly.

Before Elizabeth could parry, he strode from the drawing room, crossed the foyer, and exited the Great House.

* * *

That same day, Julia Hoffman went to the antiques shop in town. Over the course of the past week, she, with Willie Loomis's help, had set up a makeshift lab in the shop's basement. She had learned a great deal about the rhythm of life in Collinsport, for although she had lived at Collinwood for some time, she rarely spent so much time in town.

She also learned a great deal about the owners of the antiques shop, Megan and Philip Todd—more, in fact, than she wanted to know. While she wondered what Megan was truly like before she met Barnabas and surrendered her free will, Philip was easier to read. She'd met dozens of men like him over the years—vain and self-centered. Looking at them now, Julia wondered how they ever thought they would be a good match. Whatever else she was, Megan was down to earth. Philip was a man who needed constant reassurance—of his attractiveness, business acumen, and good taste. Perhaps they were one of those couples that fell hard, and then realized love and lust were not enough to sustain them. In any case, one thing that medical school taught Julia, was not to be one of those women that needed a man in her life enough to tolerate the likes of Philip Todd.

When Julia arrived in the shop that afternoon, Philip Todd was with a pair of customers. To her mind, his peacock feathers were on full display. He was delighting the two middle-aged women, who looked like they stumbled into Collinsport during a day of "antiquing," with tales of his greatest finds. The tales, Julia noted, were intended to impress his listeners with his savvy and prowess as an antiques connoisseur. She managed to suppress a contemptuous chuckle.

Julia had come in response to a phone call from Megan, letting her know that Philip had plans to go to Bangor that afternoon and evening. Julia could have unfettered access to her lab. Thus, Julia was surprised to find Philip minding the shop when she arrived. She looked around the shop while Philip finished convincing the two women to commit to one antique piece each. Julia loitered as Philip carefully wrapped a cameo necklace for one woman, and a small painted 19th century portrait for the other. He continued to regale the women even as he completed the sale by enclosing his business card with each of their purchases, in case they would like to stay in touch.

When the women were gone and the shop was empty, Julia turned to Philip. She offered a smile, but the kind that lacked warmth—the kind she reserved for situations that called for the veneer of friendliness, but not the reality of it.

Philip greeted her, saying, "Dr. Hoffman, I'm surprised to see you today. We weren't expecting you." Although his voice was buttery smooth, there was an edge to his eyes that suggested her presence was unwelcome.

Julia fixed the smile in place, and returned Philip's icy stare. "I happened to be in town this afternoon," she lied. "And thought I'd stop by to check on Megan. Is she in?"

"If you'd come a few minutes later, you would have found her here in the shop, and me on my way to Bangor." Philip made a grand gesture of looking at his watch. He went to the foot of the stairs that led to their apartment and called, "Megan, I have to go. I need you here in the shop!" His tone was sharp and impatient. Philip waited only a matter of seconds before calling out again, "_Megan_!"

Megan Todd appeared at the top of the stairs, out of Julia's line of sight. Julia heard the younger woman say, "I'm coming, Philip."

"Can't you hurry? I don't want to keep the client waiting," he huffed.

Before Julia could intervene, Megan descended the stairs, entered the shop, and made her way to a stool behind the counter. "Go," she said curtly. Her face was impassive as she watched Philip go to the shop's small office and return with his jacket on and small overnight case in his hand.

"Don't wait up," he said. "I'm staying the night."

Julia could barely suppress a sneer as she watched him leave. She turned to take a better look at Megan. The woman who sat behind the counter of the antiques shop was diminished since Julia last saw her only the day before. Her complexion was sallow; dark circles underlined her sunken eyes.

"I meant to come down earlier, but I …" Megan's voice trailed off reflecting her overall dissipation.

"You should get some rest," Julia said flatly. Her tone masked her many conflicting feelings upon seeing the once-vital woman reduced to a form of sustenance for a vampire. On the one hand, as a doctor, she wanted to protect Megan. On the other, the best way to protect her and the other women of Collinsport, was to find a cure for Barnabas's vampirism. She knew this intellectually, but emotionally, she was revolted by the changes in Megan Todd, wrought by her friend.

"You're right," Megan said, as she dismounted the tall stool and made her way to the shop door. "I was just waiting for Philip to leave." She turned the sign to indicate that the shop was now closed then dimmed the lights in the shop. When she turned back to face Julia, there was a strange look in Megan's eyes. Her hand went to the scarf that encircled her throat.

"You should let me examine you. I can give you an injection of iron, if you're feeling weak," Julia offered.

"No thank you, Julia," Megan returned. Outside the shop window, the setting sun was little more than a glow at the horizon. "He will come to me tonight," Megan said as she moved to ascend the stairs to the apartment. "And when he does, I must be ready for him."

In the distance, an unknown animal bayed.

* * *

Willie Loomis paced the basement of the Old House, as he had so many times before. For a brief time following his release from the Windcliff Sanitarium, his life had taken a turn for the better. Knowing that he'd never fit in anywhere else, Julia Hoffman had convinced Elizabeth Stoddard to give him the role of caretaker at the Old House. With Barnabas "away," Julia had argued, it was good to have someone there to see to the house.

During this time, Willie was something akin to happy. He occasionally saw Maggie, though she was married. He saw Julia almost daily. He even saw Carolyn and the kids—David and Amy—around the estate. He was happy to keep the house tidy, and to make sure that no one trespassed.

Then everything changed. There was only one certainty at Collinwood—if things were going well, it was certain not to last. Sure enough, a short time later, Angelique showed up. Then Barnabas returned and Maggie and Quentin moved away. Then things were bad again. Barnabas and Angelique were engaged to be married. But Barnabas had intimated that it was because Angelique held his first love, Josette, hostage. Josette's music-box was the key. So, Willie had searched every inch of the Old House, but didn't dare enter the cottage that Angelique called home.

Worst of all was the witch herself. Angelique behaved as if she were already the mistress of the Old House—ordering Willie around while Barnabas slept during the day. He resented her, but he feared her even more.

He profoundly missed the brief interlude in which he was the Old House's sole resident. Time and again, he thought of all of the damage and pain that had been inflicted because of a love affair gone wrong. Such was the legacy of Barnabas and Angelique.

The familiar sound of squeaky hinges recalled him to the present. Barnabas slowly lifted the lid on his coffin. And when it was fully open, he sat up, and surveyed his surroundings.

"Where is she?" Barnabas asked without greeting the faithful man who met him.

"She's not here," Willie said, as he watched Barnabas emerge from his coffin. "And I don't care where she is. I'm just glad she's not here."

"And the music-box? Have you found it?"

"Like I told you before, I've searched this whole house—from top to bottom, Barnabas, it's not _here_," Willie said emphatically. Then he went on in his familiar nervous tone, "Besides, why would she hide it here?"

"To taunt me," Barnabas responded.

"I don't think so. Do you know what I think?" Willie continued with out waiting for a response, "I think she'd keep it close. I think she's hidden it at the cottage—I'm certain of it."

"Then we must look for it there," Barnabas said.

"No, Barnabas. I told you before. I went to the cottage when she was out with Roger. There's something evil in there. Something _malevolent_. I felt it," Willie told him.

"You _must_ try again," Barnabas was insistent.

"No."

Barnabas thought how easy it would be to once again bend Willie to his will. Suddenly, his fangs protruded of their own volition.

"No, Barnabas," Willie stammered, as he fumbled with the collar of his work-shirt. From it, he pulled out a small gold cross that hung on a gold chain. Barnabas hissed and turned away. "No, Barnabas," Willie repeated, in a wounded voice. "I'm not that man anymore," he said. "I won't be your blood-slave, or be locked up again for something you did!" Willie's whole body shook, causing the cross to twist and turn on the chain.

"Put it away, Willie," Barnabas said. "I wouldn't hurt you."

"But …" Willie began.

"I'm not that man anymore either. I wouldn't hurt you—not intentionally. It's … it's an instinct. That's all," Barnabas said in a piteous voice. "Put it away, Willie," he repeated softly.

Willie slipped the cross back under his shirt. "You can turn around now," he said to Barnabas.

"I'll find another way to search the cottage. I'm sorry, Willie."

"I'm sorry too, Barnabas," Willie said.

Then Barnabas walked past Willie, giving the younger man a wide berth, and ascended the stairs.

Willie called after him, "Barnabas, where are you going?" But he received no answer. A moment later, he heard the front door close. He knew Barnabas had gone out into the night.

* * *

Megan Todd looked in the mirror. There, she found some semblance of her former self. She had applied the makeup necessary to restore some depth of color to her face, especially her cheeks. The finishing touch was the lipstick that brought it all together.

After she'd closed the shop and left Julia Hoffman to her research, she'd sat in the armchair in the bedroom she shared with Philip and prepared herself for what was to come—for _who_ was to come. For a few moments, the feeling of dissipation overtook her. She thought perhaps she should have accepted Julia's offer of an iron injection. But then, she thought about what was to come—about _Barnabas_ coming to her.

She felt renewed—excited even. She found the prospect of it revived her and inspired her to look her best. So, she donned her light blue negligee and matching peignoir. She lined her eyes in dark cat's eye liner, and shadowed her lids in a shade that complimented her negligee. If it had been Philip for whom she dressed, she would have added the thick lace choker she bought to add to her arsenal of ways to cover her neck. But because it was Barnabas, there was no need to disguise her puncture wounds. She displayed them proudly and admired them in the mirror. They marked her as _his_. And someday, she would mark Philip similarly.

She brushed her hair, draping it over her shoulder, working the brush down to the ends. Anticipation traveled from the pit of her stomach down to her loins. She heard the sound of an animal's call in the distance. A moment later, she heard the chirp of a bat outside the window. Then he was with her. She set the brush down on her dresser and turned to face him fully.

* * *

It was clear that she'd taken time and care with her appearance—that she had prepared herself for him. It was clear that she knew he would come to her that night. But on this night, Barnabas did not care about her appearance or that she met him ready to surrender herself to what was to come. On this night, Barnabas was fueled by frustration, shame, and self-loathing. It was an all too familiar accelerant—one that paradoxically robbed him of the very humanity he so desperately sought.

"Barnabas, you've come to me. I knew you would," she said, tacitly offering herself to him. Her hair was draped over one shoulder, so as to reveal the expanse of her neck and shoulder on the other side—to make it readily available to him.

Under different circumstances, he would have welcomed it that way. He would have told her how lovely she looked, before partaking in her offering of blood. But that was not what he wanted—_needed_—that night. So, he approached her wordlessly and gripped her upper arms with such ferocity that she cried out in shock and fear. It was the first time she reacted that way; he found he liked it. His fangs were fully protruded as he sank them deep into the flesh of her neck, hungrily drawing from her the physical and emotional sustenance he craved. In that moment, Megan's auburn hair dissolved into Angelique's blond tresses. In that moment, he found dominion over the sorceress; he channeled what it would feel like to finally take from Angelique what she had taken from him.

"_Barnabas_!" The familiar voice came loud and urgent to his ears. "Barnabas, stop! You'll kill her!"

Only then did his fangs retract and he release his quaking victim. Megan's eyes met his before she gave way in a faint. Two rivulets of blood trailed down her neck then followed the line of her collarbone, as though it was a canal.

Barnabas looked and saw Julia Hoffman standing in the doorway, with a look of revulsion on her face.

"What have you done?" she asked.

"You must help her," Barnabas said. When Julia did not move, but stood immobilized by shock, he repeated, "Julia, you must help her!"

* * *

Julia left and returned a few moments later, with her medical bag in hand. Barnabas had placed Megan's limp body on the bed and sat beside her in a pose of comfort and care that belied what she'd witnessed only moments before.

As Julia approached, Barnabas stood, allowing her access to her patient. Julia took his place beside Megan. She cleaned and bandaged the wounds on Megan's neck. Then she turned Megan gently on to her side and administered an injection of iron into her hip. The soft moan that Megan emitted was the only sign that she remained conscious.

Barnabas hovered near the two women. When Julia was done checking Megan's vital signs, he said, "You _must_ save her, Julia."

Julia stood and spun toward him, a look of contempt on her face. "Why, Barnabas?"

He immediately understood the intent of her question. "I … I lost control," he said.

"Evidently," Julia retorted sarcastically.

"Please, Julia. You couldn't possibly feel more contempt for me than I feel for myself," he said. "Megan is … " he searched for the words to describe the indescribable bond he'd developed with the strong-willed Megan. "Will she live?" he finally asked.

"She'll need another transfusion, but yes, I arrived just in time. Still …" she stretched out the word as she thought, "I don't see how we can continue to keep this from her husband."

"You must find a way. Tell him she's taken a turn for the worse."

"And if he wants her admitted to the hospital? What then? Dave Woodard will recognize at once that she suffers from the same symptoms that Maggie once did," Julia said in consternation. She sighed.

"Without Megan you won't be able to access the lab," he said.

"I'll think of something," Julia told him.

"You must be allowed to continue your work, Julia. Only then will I be beyond Angelique's reach."

"Are you sure about that, Barnabas?" Julia asked with a raised eyebrow.

"What do you mean, Julia?"

"Only this," the doctor began. "Wherever you go, in whatever period of time you exist, Angelique follows." Here she paused. "In fact, you will be even more vulnerable to Angelique once you're cured. So," she continued with gravity, "before all is said and done, I think we'll need to find a different solution to deal with Angelique."


	7. Chapter 7

The waxing moon ushers in a new week on the Collinwood estate, and with it, a return to familiar patterns of life. For its youngest resident, Amy Jennings, her emerging focus and fixation on solving a perceived problem on the estate marks her maturation and the evolution of her personality.

* * *

The ride home from Collinsport was an unusually sullen affair, at least from David Collins's perspective.

All of his friends had scattered after school that day. There were no afterschool club meetings, no impromptu games of catch—nothing. He was forced to go to the library and wait until his cousin Carolyn came to pick them up. Amy, on the other hand, had headed to the antiques shop, as she usually did. For once, David wished he could join her, but after all of his disparaging comments about spending time with a kooky, old lady in her weird antiques shop, he could hardly invite himself along without seeming like a flake.

So, he watched Amy leave, slumped into the library, found an unoccupied table, and got a head-start on his homework. If he worked fast enough, he might even finish it and have the rest of his afternoon free.

He had just completed the first row of math problems, when Amy arrived and plopped down in the seat across from him.

"What are you doing here?" David asked.

"Same as you—waiting for Carolyn," Amy sniffed in response.

"I meant, how come you're not at the antiques shop?" David said, punctuated with a wry expression.

"Megan's not feeling well."

David let a moment pass, then said, "Gee, I'm sorry, Amy. I know how much you like going there." He remembered Carolyn's advice about trying to understand how Amy felt about things.

Amy gave him a skeptical look, but said, "Thanks. I hope she's okay. She gets sick a lot lately."

"Well, I'm trying to finish my homework before Carolyn gets here. If you finish yours too, we can play a game together when we get home," David said with an eager smile. "Just like we used to. You can even choose the game."

For a moment, Amy thought about how much fun it would be to play a kid's game—hide and seek, or the game of chicken they made up about going into dark, uninhabited sections of the Great House. But in the end, she said, "I'm sorry, David. I have some things I have to do when we get home."

"What things, Amy?" he asked, impatience creeping into his tone.

"I have to write a letter to Maggie," Amy lied. "I wasn't very nice to her when she left. But lately, I've been feeling really bad about that. I want to apologize."

"I guess that's a pretty good reason," David conceded. He turned back to his homework.

Amy surreptitiously opened the book on charms and curses, hiding it inside one of her schoolbooks. She knew she didn't have to bother, but she didn't want to explain it to David. She began ...

_Chapter 5 – The Power of the Pentagram_

_The five-point star known as a pentagram is a symbol of immense strength and power. Used by the right practitioner, in the right circumstances, it can aid in casting and undoing of spells, serve as a talisman to ward away evil, or even serve to bind evil within it. Each of its points represents an element and when each element is present, the pentagram takes on properties all its own …_

* * *

Carolyn had been strangely taciturn on the way home. Usually, she effusively sought to engage David and Amy in an assessment of their day—how had it been? What had they studied? What homework did they have? But today, she gave her undivided attention to the road ahead, and spoke only when David asked her a question. Amy was silent as well, but that was not unusual these days.

Carolyn parked and the three headed into the Great House together.

"Let's go and see what Mrs. Johnson made for our snack," David said, depositing his book-bag on the table in the foyer.

Now, Carolyn spoke up. "You go on ahead, David. I'd like to speak to Amy alone. She'll be there in a few minutes."

David looked puzzled, and Amy's eyes widened and turned to Carolyn. Then David took a slow walk across the foyer, looking back momentarily when he reached the door that led to the dining rooms, kitchen, and pantry.

"Let's go in the drawing room," Carolyn said, taking Amy by the shoulders and leading her inside. She closed the doors behind them.

"What is it, Carolyn? What's wrong?" Amy asked.

"Your teacher called me this morning," Carolyn said with appropriate gravity.

"Oh? What did Miss Scott want?" Amy asked innocently.

"She said you're struggling in school. You seem distracted in class—you turn in your homework late, if at all. She said you don't seem to be trying."

"I'm sorry, Carolyn. I guess I'm just having a hard time adjusting to going to school. I miss Maggie," Amy said, her eyes wide with faux innocence and upset.

"Oh no you don't, Amy. I _invented_ that innocent act. Don't try it on me," Carolyn returned in a stern tone. "You were doing fine in school. It's only recently—since you started going to the antiques shop …"

"You're right, Carolyn," Amy interrupted her. "But it isn't Megan's fault," she added emphatically. Now her demeanor changed and she slipped on her newfound maturity like a cloak. "I know who I am now—and I want to learn everything I can about … about myself and my place in the world."

"But Amy," the exasperated Carolyn began, "you can't just ignore school and homework. The world doesn't work that way."

Amy folded her arms across her chest and turned away from Carolyn. A long moment of silence filled the space between them. When Amy turned back, a small smile graced her lips, but her eyes were hard. "All right, Carolyn. I'll do my homework and pay attention in class, but it just means it will take longer to do what needs to be done."

Working to shed her impatience, Carolyn softened and asked, "And what is that, Amy?"

"We both want the same thing, Carolyn," Amy said. "Maybe for different reasons, but we both want her gone. And I've been studying—looking for a way. Nothing is the same since Angelique arrived, Carolyn," Amy said in a grave tone. "Maggie and Quentin left, then Tony. Roger and Elizabeth are always fighting. She's engaged to Barnabas, but enjoys making him unhappy. Even Willie isn't the same since she got here." Amy stated her case. Then she went on, "I know what needs to be done, Carolyn, but I can't do it alone. I need your help. You said you would help me when the time came."

"And I will, but even if she were to leave, it's no guarantee that Tony will come back, or Maggie and Quentin. I guess I just don't understand, Amy. What can _you_ do?"

"What can _we_ do?" Amy corrected her. "When I met Megan, she told me that I am descended from a line of people with certain gifts."

"What kind of gifts? How does Megan know about it? And what does this have to do with Angelique?" Carolyn asked in rapid succession.

"I have the gift of foresight—the ability to see what is yet to come." Amy once again sounded like someone much older—much more experienced. "I've seen what Collinwood can be—with _her_ gone. But that isn't enough. I have to study—to learn what can be done. And Megan is helping me. She's taught me so much already—about the Tarot, how to use a divining crystal, and about charms and curses. But …" A tantalizing pause followed.

"But what?" Carolyn asked impatiently.

"But I need your help—yours and Mrs. Stoddard's and Megan's. I can't do this on my own, but together—together we can make her leave Collinwood."

"All right, Amy. What can I do?" Carolyn asked, finding herself drawn into the child's certainty.

"There is something—something important."

* * *

When Elizabeth Collins Stoddard arrived home at Collinwood that evening, she found her daughter, Carolyn, waiting for her in the drawing room.

Elizabeth had spent the day undertaking the kind of charitable work befitting the matriarch of the area's venerable family. She had long served on the board of the Collinsport Hospital, but recently had joined the board of the nearby Windcliff Sanitarium, as well. It was there that she had spent a good part of the day. Dr. Fisher had, as always, insisted on introducing her to one of his pet projects. She had patiently endured his lecture, which was followed by an entreaty for funds to realize his vision. As always, she had given him vague hope of funding to come, but no firm commitment.

Then came lunch, during which, Elizabeth chatted amiably with Dr. Fisher and other members of the sanitarium's board. She carefully steered the single-minded psychiatrist away from his favorite projects, and toward more general topics, at least for the duration of their meal.

Next was the full meeting of the board. Elizabeth felt more at ease in that setting. There were the standing reports, updates on various projects, and the usual pitch for the board to raise funds for some new undertaking, or simply for needed renovations.

By the time Harry Johnson retrieved her from the sanitarium, she welcomed even his banal chatter, which required little more than an indistinct affirmation or negation. It had been a _long_ day.

When she arrived at the Great House, Elizabeth removed her coat to a peg in the entryway, deposited her handbag and gloves on the table in the foyer, and made a beeline—albeit a languid one—to the drawing room. She went to the liquor cabinet and poured herself a sherry.

"May I have one?" Carolyn asked.

Only then did Elizabeth notice her daughter sitting beside the fire that blazed in the fireplace. She poured a second glass of sherry and moved to join her daughter beside the fire.

"How was Windcliff?" Carolyn asked as she accepted the stemmed glass from her mother.

"It's been a long, and sometimes tedious, day," Elizabeth responded, then washed the response down with a sip of sherry.

"Joe?" Carolyn asked. No other explanation was needed between them.

Each time Elizabeth visited the sanitarium, she checked on the condition of the town's favorite son, Joe Haskell. Each time, the news was the same. "No change," she said simply.

Carolyn exhaled a deep sigh that conveyed the sadness that news of Joe's unchanging condition brought with it. She felt a pang of guilt for turning so quickly away from Joe's reality to other matters. But it did neither Joe, nor Carolyn, any good to wallow in sadness.

"Well," Carolyn began, "At least you got out of Collinsport for the day. I wish I had."

"Oh? Did something happen?" Elizabeth was alive with concern.

"Nothing like _that_," Carolyn said to assuage her mother's worry. "It's just … well, I went into town today to do some shopping, and I had some extra time before picking up David and Amy. So, I went to the Inn for a cup of coffee. And when I walked in, I heard Mrs. Sims and Amanda gossiping."

"Oh?" Elizabeth interjected, unsure, but with an inkling, where her daughter was leading.

"Gossiping," Carolyn continued, "about Uncle Roger and _Angelique_." Carolyn shook her head in disgust, and her hair swung back and forth for emphasis. "The things they said before they saw me—speculating that she was going to exchange one Collins fiancé for another."

"We're above the town wags, Carolyn," was Elizabeth's imperious response. "You must remember that."

"I do, Mother, but how long before David overhears someone speaking like that about his father."

"I've spoken with your Uncle Roger, Carolyn. What more can I do? I can't forbid him to see her. He's an adult—a man of means. My hands are tied," she concluded.

"He's a _Collins_," Carolyn persisted. "He belongs here; _she_ does not."

"Perhaps, I could speak to Barnabas," Elizabeth ventured. "He's away so often that he may not be aware of her behavior, or of the gossip surrounding them."

"I'm sorry to say it, Mother, but I don't think men can be trusted when it comes to her. I think we must take matters into our own hands."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "What do you have in mind?"

"What if there was a way to persuade Angelique to leave Collinwood?"

Elizabeth sighed, "I'm sorry, Carolyn, but I think it unlikely she'll just up and go because we ask her to. I could offer her money, but she has both Barnabas and Roger on a string. She has no reason—no incentive—to leave."

But Carolyn was not to be denied. "But what if there was a way?" she pressed. "Would you help?"

"Help how?" Elizabeth asked her daughter.

"I don't know yet, Mother," Carolyn admitted.

"I don't understand," Elizabeth said with an edge of exasperation.

"We're working on it," Carolyn said, suddenly feeling sheepish about trusting Amy.

"_We_?"

"You trust me, don't you, Mother?"

"Of course, I do."

"Then trust me a little longer. I just need to know that you'll be ready to help when the time comes."

"All right, Carolyn. I'll trust you a little longer, and when the time comes, I'm with you. But Carolyn, be careful. There's something in her eyes—something dangerous."

* * *

After dinner that evening, Amy went straight to her room, ostensibly to get caught up on her homework. Instead, she rushed through it—neither checking her work nor using her best penmanship. When it was done, she returned her attention to her _true_ course of study. Charms, curses, and tools of divination—the books she'd read covered them all, but still something was missing—something important. Tomorrow, she would ask Megan. In the meantime, she would focus on Professor Stokes's notes on Angelique—the _sorceress_, as Stokes described her. She felt certain that the thin notebook would reveal a weakness—a flaw—that could be exploited. She must find it.

* * *

The school day that followed, seemed to Amy to be an interminable bore. Sometimes, it was like her teacher and classmates were little more than a distraction from her real life and from her real purpose for being.

Carolyn had put her on notice that her teacher, Miss Scott, was scrutinizing her. So, she tried to behave like the other kids. She sat up straight and made eye contact with Miss Scott. She even raised her hand when she thought she knew the answer. All the while though, she longed to resume her study of how to rid Collinwood of the pestilence of the sorceress, Angelique.

When the school day was finally over, Miss Scott rewarded Amy for her efforts, by letting her be in the first group of students released from class for the day. It couldn't have come on a better day. She had so many questions for Megan. This way, she would have some extra time to ask them.

Amy practically ran to the antiques shop. She arrived slightly winded and full of anticipation. The bell above the door announced her arrival, but the shop was empty.

"Hello?" Amy called out. "Megan? Philip?"

A small voice answered her. "I'm here, Little One—in the office. Join me."

Amy followed the voice to the office and found Megan sitting behind the desk, the cards laid before her. Megan smiled when she saw Amy, swept the cards up, and gathered them together in a well-practiced motion.

Amy took the seat across from Megan. Megan's eyes had taken on a dark cast; her cheekbones we're more prominent. A flowing scarf adorned her now-thin neck, winding around it then trailed off toward her waist. Amy knew that Megan had been ill, but she wasn't prepared for the change in her. Megan was smaller than the last time she'd seen her. But not just from losing weight—she seemed smaller in stature and pale—very, very pale. In short, she seemed diminished.

Megan, as though sensing Amy's thoughts, or at least reading her eyes, said, "You find me very changed."

"Yes."

"But you've come with many questions on your mind—and in your heart," Megan went on. "And we don't have much time together." Megan took a book from the top desk drawer and handed it to Amy. "The answer to what is on your mind is in there. Open it."

The book was old. It's leather binding was probably once burgundy in color, but now was merely a faded brown. The gold lettering had long since chipped away, until only a few letters were legible on the spine and cover.

"What is it?" Amy asked, even as she opened the book. She turned to the table of contents and scanned the chapters. She stopped. Her eyes looked up and met Megan's. Amy flipped through the pages …

_Chapter 16 – Banishment_

_There are many ways to accomplish the act of banishment, but none of them is without attendant risks …_

* * *

When Amy was done skimming the chapter, she looked up and found Megan examining her closely.

"How did you know?" Amy asked.

"I saw it in the cards, Little One. I _see_ it in the cards. But you must protect yourselves …"

"What about you, Megan? I can't do this without you."

"You can, Amy. You will find a way. Look at me," Megan said passionately. "I'm depleted. In my condition, I'll be more of a hindrance than a help. But there is another way that I can help." Megan stood. "I'll be right back."

While Megan went upstairs, Amy sat in the office, looking over the book Megan gave her. She knew now how it might be done, but worried about the danger.

When Megan returned, she showed Amy the contents of a small velvet bag—four small silver charms. "One for each of you," she said as she placed them in Amy's hand. "But I need one more."

"No, no you don't," Amy said.

"Oh?"

"Thank you, Megan. I think I know how it must be."

"I'm sorry I can't do more," Megan told Amy. "I would help you, if I could."

"It's okay. I understand. But I'll have to find someone else—someone as strong as you."

Megan laughed, "You flatter me, Little One. I know I no longer seem strong to you, but a new strength is coming …"

They were interrupted by a noise somewhere in the shop.

"What was that?" Amy asked. "I think it came from over there." She pointed to the rear of the shop.

"I'm sure it was nothing," Megan told her. "There's a cat that sometimes comes in through the basement window. Look at the time, Amy. You must go. You don't want to keep Carolyn waiting."

"You're right, Megan. I don't want to be late—and thank you for the charms."

"You're welcome, Little One. I'll see you tomorrow and we will speak more then."

* * *

Dr. Julia Hoffman sat at the makeshift lab bench in the basement of the antiques shop, looking absently at a blood smear as it congealed into a useless blob. She should have covered it several minutes earlier, but she found herself unable to concentrate on the task at hand. While she felt certain she was close—close to finding the key that would unlock the secret of vampirism, she was just as certain that Angelique would not allow it to interfere with the punishment she meted out on Barnabas. And then, there were the memories of Barnabas draining the life from Megan Todd. The image was seared in her consciousness. But rather than inspiring her to complete the cure all the quicker, it pulled at her—slowed her in a way she was unaccustomed to experiencing.

Rather than pushing herself to continue, she decided to pack it in for the day. She put away the blood samples, put the cover over the microscope, and turned off all of the lab equipment. On a hunch, she took her medical bag from the bench and ascended the stairs that led to the shop. But at the top of the stairs, she heard voices in the shop. Amy Jennings was still there. She and Megan were talking.

Julia descended the stairs, surprised by her desire to check on Megan—to treat her as any other doctor treats their patient. More than that, to treat her as she might a _friend_. She collected the rest of her things and ascended the stairs that led to the alley, and from there, to her waiting car.

Although she focused on the road back to the estate, a part of Julia's mind turned over and over again her latest attempt to cure Barnabas. She remembered how she'd been stymied in her last attempt, with nearly catastrophic results for Barnabas. _It must be different this time_, she insisted to herself. _But it won't be—as long as Angelique exerts her will._

* * *

When Julia arrived at the Great House, she followed what had, of late, become her habit—a brief visit to her room; followed by a visit to the kitchen for a cup of tea, or coffee, if there was any in the percolator; and then retirement to the library or drawing room to complete her lab notes or review a medical journal. Usually, in the late afternoon a cup of tea or coffee revived her for her evening's work, but on this day, even though it was relatively early, a glass of sherry beckoned her. So, it was to the drawing room that she went.

As she approached the slightly ajar doors, she heard voices within.

"You should see her, Carolyn." It was Amy who spoke. "She even looks different—and she says she can't help us. What are we going to do now?"

"Maybe it's for the best," Julia heard Carolyn say.

"Are you having second thoughts?" Amy said, in a voice that sounded remarkably mature to Julia's ears.

"No, it's not that," Carolyn said. "But we could use the time to learn more, and maybe by then, Megan will be better."

Amy exhaled an impatient sigh. "No, we must go ahead as planned—as the crystal foretold. We must find someone to take Megan's place."

"What about Professor Stokes?" Carolyn asked.

Amy snorted a small, bitter laugh. "He'll never help us—he was in love with her."

"All right. What about Willie? He hates her as much as we do."

"But he's weak," Amy said, again in a tone Julia was unaccustomed to hearing from the girl. "And he's a man. She'll bat her eyes at him, beg for his forgiveness and his help, and Willie will crumble—and so will our circle. No—we need someone strong, someone who can resist her, someone who wants her gone as much as we do."

"Will I do?" Julia asked, as she pushed the drawing room doors open and stepped inside.


	8. Chapter 8

From the time of its founding to the present, the great estate of Collinwood has served as a lightening rod, drawing to it unnatural and dangerous forces. On this day though, it is new acquaintances made, and old acquaintances renewed that take their place in the foreground, and the unnatural and supernatural that recede into the background, if only temporarily. On this day, one of the estate's own returns and discovers what has changed—and what remains the same.

* * *

Timothy Eliot Stokes was a man whose professional status—and physical stature—made him impossible to ignore in a town such as Collinsport. Though he was now a long-term resident, he continued to feel more like an anthropologist embedded in a foreign community, than a resident of the town. He did not work for either of the local industries, nor did he provide a necessary service to the community, so he had no natural affinity group or social circle to draw upon.

So it was, that as he made his way down the main street of Collinsport, he noted that true to form, few of the town's residents were about at that time of the morning. The mill and cannery workers were already hard at work; the fishermen were already out to sea in their boats; and the service providers were already seeing patients, clients, or staffing the schools, hospitals and libraries.

In many respects, if he was honest, it was a lonely existence. There were brief respites from the loneliness, provided by the companionship of Angelique, when she deigned to offer it, and by his enduring friendship with Julia Hoffman. On this morning, the potential for a new association in Collinsport came from an unexpected source. He had passed the little storefront any number of times, but it was not the sort of establishment he typically frequented.

Although he was interested in antique pieces—especially ones associated with the occult—the new antiques shop in Collinsport seemed to him to skew toward an odd assortment of knick-knacks rather than the truly unique pieces he sought. And yet, as if to disprove his general assumption, on this morning as he walked past the shop, a fine pocket-watch in the window caught his eye. It shone like a gem surrounded by lumps of coal, in a window display devoted to gaudy jewelry and unremarkable timepieces.

And so it was that Stokes paid his first visit to the antiques shop. The tinkling of a bell announced his entry. Stepping inside, he confirmed his suspicions about the quality of the wares it contained. He looked around for a moment, examining an antique washbasin and accompanying chamber pot. They were early 19th century—old to be sure, but not particularly rare or unique.

"May I help you?"

Stokes heard a man's voice over his shoulder, and turned to meet it. The man who stood before him was objectively handsome by classical standards—tall, well built, with the kind of features Stokes imagined women would find attractive. At the same time, there was something in the way he carried himself—an aloofness that seemed unearned. Nevertheless, he greeted the man with an extended hand and a tight smile.

"Eliot Stokes," the professor said.

"Philip Todd," the younger man said, as he gave the professor's hand a firm shake. "Are you looking for something in particular?" he asked. "Or just looking?" His tone indicated that if it were the latter, their acquaintance would be at an end.

"Actually," the professor began, harnessing his professional gravitas. "I'd like to take a closer look at the pocket-watch in your window display, if it's not inconvenient."

"Not at all. Just a moment," Philip said and moved in the direction of the display window.

Stokes returned to examining the shop's various items with a critical eye. Then his eyes were drawn to the rear of the shop when he heard footsteps alighting a flight of stairs that led to the store's upper flat.

"Philip?"

Stokes was surprised to see Julia descend from the upper flat into the shop. "Julia, what are you doing here?" he asked.

"I could ask you the same," she returned.

"I was drawn by a timepiece I saw in the window," Stokes told her.

"Another pocket-watch, Eliot?" she asked, proof of how well she knew him.

"Indeed," he said simply. Then added, "And you?"

Philip Todd appeared by his side at that moment. "She came to check on my wife, Megan. She's been under the weather," he said as he handed the watch to Stokes.

Stokes brought his monocle to his eye and began examining the watch.

"But I'm doing better. Aren't I Dr. Hoffman?" Megan announced her arrival in a steady voice.

"Mister …" Philip began the introduction.

"Professor," Stokes corrected him.

"_Professor_ Eliot Stokes," Philip completed the introduction. "My wife, Megan."

Stokes let his monocle fall from his eye and looked to where Megan Todd stood. "My pleasure," he said, taking her in with his eyes. She was tall, with a cascade of auburn hair. Had illness not robbed her of a healthy complexion, he would have found her to be a handsome woman. Instead, her extreme pallor stood in stark contrast to her flowing locks. The dark circles beneath her eyes reinforced her poor health.

"Philip," Megan said to her husband, "would you lower the front shade a bit? You know how the sunlight bleaches the furnishings."

"Of course," Philip said amiably, as he moved to fulfill his wife's request.

Under the guise of examining the watch, Stokes surreptitiously completed his survey of Megan, noting that despite the unusually temperate day, she wore a scarf around her neck that she clutched at with a nervous hand. As the shade lowered and dulled the morning sun, she stepped fully into the shop.

As Philip returned, Stokes said, "I'll take it," indicating the watch.

"Excellent," Philip enthused. "I'll wrap it up for you."

"I'll take care of it, Philip. Aren't you planning to go to Bangor today?" Megan asked.

"Yes, but I don't need to be there until later this afternoon. Why don't you go back upstairs and rest?"

Before Megan could answer, Julia intervened. "He's right, Megan. The rest will do you good."

"It seems I'm outnumbered," Megan said. "Professor, it was nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Professor Stokes returned. Then watched as she ascended the stairs.

"Here you are," Philip said, handing Stokes the small box containing the pocket-watch.

Stokes retrieved his wallet from his breast-pocket, drew out two crisp bills, and handed them to Philip.

"Thank you," Philip said with a raised eyebrow, clearly not expecting to receive cash for such a transaction. He eyed the professor with new appreciation.

* * *

"I'm glad you were at liberty to join me, Julia," Stokes said, as he ushered Julia into his apartment.

"I had planned to stop by, in any case, Eliot. It's been too long."

"Yes," he agreed. "But I gather you've been busy."

"Hm," she hummed in the affirmative.

"Tea? I have an excellent new batch of Earl Grey."

"Yes, please."

As soon as he went to the kitchen, Julia opened her medical bag, removed the small notebook that Amy had given her, and randomly placed it among the similarly bound volumes on her friend's bookshelf. With that done, she sat on the couch, and awaited his return.

When Stokes returned, the tea's aroma filled the room. But as he filled their cups, he had other things on his mind. "How long, Julia? How long will you go on abetting him?"

"I beg your pardon," Julia said stiffly.

"Come now, Julia. We know one another far too well for that."

"Very well," she said. "The answer is not for much longer." Then she softened, "I'm working on a cure, Eliot. And I'm so close."

"And in the meantime, Megan Todd suffers," he said in a matter of fact tone.

It pricked Julia's conscience. In a paradoxical response, she went on the offensive. "And what about your friendship with Angelique? You know what she is, and yet you've befriended her."

"The two situations are entirely different," he said reasonably. She merely grunted, but her disagreement was clear. "Well, we'll have to agree to disagree, though never disagreeably, I hope. Your friendship is much too important to me for that."

"I feel the same, Eliot."

"Let's drink to it," he said, raising his teacup.

She met it with hers then took a deep sip, sealing their agreement.

* * *

Willie Loomis paced nervously back and forth. Since being released from the Windcliff Sanitarium, his world was bounded by the Old House, the bluffs that overlooked the rocky coast, and the edge of the estate. His world rarely extended as far as the town of Collinsport. He knew he couldn't go to the Blue Whale for a drink or the coffee shop for a meal, without drawing the stares of the town's residents.

So, it was a rarity that brought him into town on this day, albeit only as far as the train station. He was doing a favor for Carolyn Stoddard. It was the best kind of favor.

The station manager came out of the small station office, looked at Willie warily, then at his watch. "It'll be here any minute now," he said.

"I … I don't mind," Willie stammered.

"Can't tell by looking at you," was the manager's dry response.

Willie stopped pacing then and joined the manager in looking down the track. The distinctive sound heralded the train's arrival before they could see it. A moment later, the train itself rounded a slight bend and approached the station. The Collinsport stop would be a brief one. Only one passenger alighted the train. The assistant conductor followed and placed her bag beside her.

When she saw Willie, she smiled and waved. He practically ran to greet her. "Careful there," the station manager called after him.

"Willie! It's so good to see you."

"Maggie—welcome home. It's good to see you too. Is this all you brought?" he asked, picking up her suitcase.

"Yes, that's all." Though she carried an over-sized handbag on her shoulder and a train case as well. "Where's Carolyn? I expected her to meet me."

"She goes into town everyday at this time to pick up the kids from school," he told her.

"Of course, I should have thought of that," Maggie said.

As they made their way toward the car, Willie continued, "So, Carolyn asked me to pick you up and take you to the Great House. She said she didn't want Harry Johnson to be the first person you saw when you got back."

Maggie laughed. "She certainly knows me well."

"We've missed you, Maggie—all of us. Everyone misses you."

"How are the kids? How's _Amy_?"

"All right, I guess. I don't really get over to the Great House much," Willie said. "So, how come Quentin didn't come with you? It's a long trip to take on your own."

"I dropped everything to come back, Willie—because of Amy." By now they were in the car and headed back to the estate. "Quentin couldn't get away right now and I can only stay until Amy is better."

Willie made an indistinct noise in the back of his throat in response.

"What is it, Willie? What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing, Maggie. Honest. Carolyn asked me to do her favor, so I'm helping her out—that's all. I didn't ask her a bunch of questions."

"I'm sorry, Willie. I didn't mean it as an accusation. I'm just impatient after my long trip."

"It's okay, Maggie," he said, as they pulled down the drive that led to the Great House. "We're almost there—you must be tired."

"Yes, I am," Maggie said. The Great House loomed at the end of the drive, familiar yet forever ominous.

* * *

A short time later, Maggie descended the stairs. Finding no one around when she arrived, she'd taken her suitcase upstairs and settled into her old room—the governess's room. Now, she came downstairs in search of any of the Great House residents. The house was quiet. She heard a noise in the drawing room and moved toward it. She peeked in. "Hello?" she said in a tentative voice.

The response that greeted her was anything but tentative. "Maggie Evans, you're home!" Mrs. Johnson quickly corrected herself. "Maggie _Collins_—I'll never get used to the sound of that."

"Well, just Maggie will do!" Maggie said, as she gave the housekeeper a hug.

"Look at you—you're a sight for sore eyes, for sure. I just finished building up the fire. I thought now that she's living out in San Francisco, she might not be used the cool Collinwood evenings. I better have a fire ready when she gets here," Mrs. Johnson prattled on.

"Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. The fire does look very inviting."

"You warm yourself up. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Tea sounds perfect, but I can get it," Maggie said.

"Nonsense!"

"I've gotten used to taking care of myself," Maggie laughed.

"Well, you'll get a break from that while you're here. We're going to take good care of you," Mrs. Johnson said, turning to leave.

"Mrs. Johnson," Maggie stopped her. "Where's Amy? Is she in her room?"

"Heavens no. She's at school." Mrs. Johnson glanced at her watch. "Actually, they should be on their way home by now. They'll be here anytime now. I'll get you that tea."

Alone in the drawing room, Maggie sat by the fire. _What is going on? _The familiar Collinwood refrain ran through her mind. She leaned back into the armchair, closed her eyes, and let the growing warmth of the fire wash over her. Only now did she realize how much she'd missed being home. And only now did she admit that Collinwood was home—perhaps not the way the cottage with her Pop had been—but from the governess's room to Mrs. Johnson's ramblings, it was home. She was home.

Like it or not, the homecoming came with ambivalence—with that mixture of things that draw you in and things that push you away. Her concern for Amy had brought her home, but Willie and Mrs. Johnson behaved as though nothing was wrong. She'd come all this way … and then there was the inevitable. Sooner or later, she would encounter Angelique—or worse, Barnabas—and then what? An old fear suffused her. But she would bear it, because Amy needed her …

* * *

Carolyn's voice was light and sparkling. She said something about a surprise and then something about homework. David's response was gruff and teenaged. He was tired of being left out …

"Maggie!"

The doors of the drawing room were thrown open and the voices that were vague and indistinct to Maggie's dozing mind, were suddenly clear and immediate.

"Maggie!" David repeated, ran to her, in a very uninhibited, un-teenager-like way. "This is a great surprise! What are you doing here? How long are you staying?"

Maggie's eyes rose to Carolyn's, which shone with satisfaction. Amy hung back behind Carolyn—a thin smile on her lips and the same look of satisfaction in her eyes.

"I came for a visit," Maggie said in what she hoped would be a steady, friendly response. "I'm not sure how long I'll be staying, David."

"Are those love-beads from San Francisco?" David asked about the strands of beads around Maggie's neck.

Maggie laughed. "I suppose they are." She took off a strand of the beads and placed them around his neck. "One for you and …" She turned to Amy, and offered her a second strand of beads, "One for Amy." Amy stepped forward and allowed Maggie to place the beads around her neck.

"Thanks, Maggie," David said. Genuine excitement animated his voice. "I can't wait to show everyone at school."

"Speaking of school," Carolyn said. "I believe you have homework to do."

"But Maggie just got here, and I want to hear all about San Francisco. Have you met any hippies? Have you been across the Golden Gate Bridge?" David continued.

"I wouldn't dream of interfering with your schoolwork, David. But I'll tell you all about San Francisco over dinner," Maggie promised.

"Oh, all right." He turned to leave. "You coming?" he asked Amy.

Carolyn answered instead. "She'll be along a little later. You go on ahead."

"Great, more secrets …" David could be heard grousing as he left the drawing room.

Carolyn followed him to the doors and closed them behind him. When she turned back Maggie stood akimbo. "All right, you two, what's going on?"

Carolyn took in Maggie with her eyes. She was the same Maggie, but different. Her travels and life in San Francisco had changed her. She wore her hair long and loose parted down the middle; a braid on each side was pulled back and met center back. She was wearing a simple rust-colored dress and knee-high boots, but a wide macramé belt balanced on her hips—and of course, there were the beads.

"You look great!" Carolyn said, smiling.

Maggie's response was stern. "Thanks, but don't change the subject. You owe me an explanation. You said Amy needed me. You said she was sick."

"No. I didn't say she was _sick_ …"

"You strongly implied it. I dropped everything to come here, and I find she's just fine," Maggie began in exasperation.

Now Amy spoke, "I told her to."

"_What?_"

"I told her to tell you I was sick—because we needed you to come home," Amy said in a tone that gave Maggie a start.

Maggie softened in response. "I don't understand," she began. "Why would you bring me here under false pretenses?"

"Because you seem so happy and settled in San Francisco," Carolyn said.

"I _am_ happy and settled …"

"So, we knew you wouldn't come, except for something important. And we _needed_ you to come home, Maggie." Amy's tone was urgent; her eyes were wide and passionate. "We need you to complete the circle."

Maggie looked deep into Amy's eyes. "What are you talking about, Amy? What circle?"

* * *

A short time later, Elizabeth Stoddard returned from a meeting of the Collinsport Hospital Board, and Dr. Julia Hoffman returned to the estate from her makeshift lab beneath the antiques shop. The former greeted Maggie with a warm embrace; the latter greeted her with characteristic reserve.

When they were all assembled in the drawing room, with the doors closed, Amy took the lead. "You complete our circle, Maggie. Together we're going to banish an evil force from Collinwood. We're going to banish Angelique."

"How, Amy? By lying to get me here?" Maggie continued her angry tack from earlier. "This is unbelievable. _You're_ unbelievable," she said in evident exasperation. "And you're all in on this?" she continued as her eyes scanned the circle of women. Anger and disbelief suffused her. She had dropped everything to come to Collinwood. She'd been lied to, and for what? Some misguided attempt to drive Angelique away. Her eyes came to rest on Julia's. "You too, Julia? You know what she is—you know what she's capable of. You agreed to this?"

"Yes," Julia drew out the word. "She's a force to be reckoned with. But she has cowed or twisted every man she comes in contact with, so we must stand up to her."

"And if we fail?" Maggie asked, and the question hung in the air for a few moments.

Then Amy spoke. "Will you excuse us for a little while?" She moved to Maggie's side and took her hand. "There's something in my room that I need to show Maggie."

The three women watched as Amy led a bewildered Maggie from the drawing room and up the stairs.

All the way to Amy's room, Maggie protested. "Amy, tell me what's going on. Because, I don't understand."

"You will, Maggie," Amy said. Once inside Amy's room, she said, "I have something I need to show you. Have a seat at my desk."

Maggie did so, though all the while she followed Amy with her eyes. Amy went to the bureau, retrieved a velvet pouch, and brought it to the desk. She set it in front of Maggie then carefully opened it to reveal the divining crystal inside. With surprisingly deft fingers, Amy arranged folds of velvet to form a base for the crystal.

Maggie looked at the child—now at the cusp of puberty. "Is it?" she began.

"A crystal ball?" Amy finished for her. "It's a divining crystal."

"Amy," came Maggie's frustrated voice, "I still don't understand. Why do you have this? Is this what you wanted to show me?"

"I have it, because it's mine. It's my family legacy. It's been passed down from one woman to the next, to the next. And now it's mine. And I want to show it to you, because it shows you the truth—what was, what is, and what is to come."

Maggie had never seen Amy like this—she had changed. She had grown up so much. All at once, she could see how she had persuaded the others, no matter how misguidedly, to undertake this feat. "How, Amy? How does it show you those things?"

"Let me show you, Maggie. Place your hands here—and here," Amy said as she positioned Maggie's hands on either side of the crystal. "I'll help you." She stood behind Maggie and gently laid her hands on Maggie's shoulders. When Maggie craned her neck, ready to ask another question, Amy moved to the other side of the desk, put her hands over Maggie's, and said, "Look into the crystal. The answers you seek are there."

Maggie's eyes turned back to the crystal. "I don't see anything," she said in a small voice.

Amy drew a deep breath. She pictured the generations of women who came before her. She pictured them wielding the power of the crystal—sometimes to earn a living and survive; sometimes to help their own; and sometimes to right a wrong. "Close your eyes. You must clear your mind. You must push away all other questions—and then the question that matters the most will find you." Amy could almost feel waves of doubt and fear radiating from Maggie, but she held fast until they subsided. Then she said, "Now open your eyes and look into the crystal, but see with your mind and with your heart. Your eyes are just an instrument."

Maggie opened her eyes. A thick fog blanketed the crystal from within, but in a moment it began to clear. "Pop!" she said aloud.

* * *

"_You look lovely tonight."_

"_Lovely is a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?"_

"_You always look lovely, my dear."_

"_Oh Pop, that makes it worse—I can't always look lovely."_

"_Well, you do to me. That's a father's prerogative. Where are you going tonight?"_

"_Joe's taking me to the movies, then to supper," Maggie beamed._

"_You two have fun," Sam told his daughter._

_Maggie moved to where her father stood, preparing his paints to begin work. "We will," she said then planted a kiss on his cheek. "What are you working on tonight?" she asked, reaching for the drape that covered his half-finished painting. He stayed her with a tight grip on her wrist. "Pop!"_

"_I'm sorry, Maggie. But it's nowhere near finished, and I'm not ready for anyone to see it yet."_

"_Okay," she said, miffed and slightly bruised. "I've never known you to be so secretive about your work."_

"_I said I'm sorry, Maggie, and I am. You go on now—go meet Joe—go have a good time."_

_Maggie offered him a wan smile as she headed out of the door. _

_As soon as she was gone, Sam pulled back the drape to reveal the portrait he'd been working on. It was an elderly woman. Her face was worn and wrinkled, but the eyes were unmistakable—it was Angelique._

_Sam dipped a fine brush into the black paint on his pallet. He carefully began deepening and expanding the lines surrounding the eyes, then adding detail to the laugh lines until they deeply creased the face. He worked quickly, but with his characteristic focus. The new details added ten years to the woman in the portrait._

_Then a knock at the cottage door interrupted his work. A cloaked figure awaited him. "Who are you? What do you want from me?" he asked._

_The cloaked woman stepped into the cottage. "Don't you recognize me?" she asked as she drew back the hood of her cloak. _

"_It's impossible," Sam said, turning to the painting. It should have been impossible, but her face was the same as the one he had painted—even the new lines and wrinkles that he'd added were there._

"_Give it to me!" she said._

"_I can't. I was commissioned to paint it, and I'll finish my work," he told her firmly. "If the man who commissioned it wants to sell it to you, that's his business."_

"_I'll give you one last chance, Mr. Evans. Give me the portrait. I warn you, I'll do what I must to get it."_

"_Like I said before, I can't do that."_

"_Very well, but you've been warned," the woman hissed._

* * *

"Pop? What is it? What's wrong? What have they done to you?" Maggie cried out.

Amy shook her shoulders gently, but Maggie was still there—back at the cottage, on the night she'd come home and found her father was blind. Being an artist without the gift of sight was more than her father could bear. His life wasn't the same after that—_he_ wasn't the same after that. Before long, events played out that would lead to Pop's death, leaving Maggie all alone for the first time in her life.

And it was _Angelique_ all along—Angelique and Barnabas. Pop was just collateral damage as they tumbled through time, battling one another to a draw. She could do nothing to help Pop now.

"_Oh, Pop!"_

"Maggie," Amy shook her more forcefully. "Maggie! Come back, Maggie," Amy cried, as she shook Maggie's shoulders.

Maggie dropped the crystal on the desk, with a heavy thud. Only then did she realize that she had lifted it and held it out in front of her.

"Are you all right?" Amy asked. "What did you see?"

Now Maggie came fully back into herself—into the present. Tears filled her eyes. It was as though she had actually seen her father again, as though she had touched him again. It felt that real. She could do nothing to change the past, but she could help banish Angelique, and then, if they were successful, she would decide how to deal with Barnabas. From her travels and studies, she knew there were ways to deal with him—if one had the will to do so. But first things first, Angelique must go.

"I don't want to talk about it," Maggie said firmly. "But you can count on me to complete the circle."


	9. Chapter 9

A new day has come to the great estate of Collinwood. For one woman, her return to the estate has brought new insight into an old mystery. Maggie Collins, née Evans, has at last learned the truth behind her father's sudden blindness, and the series of events that led to his death. Now she must make sense of what she has learned and decide what to do next.

* * *

"Maggie, my dear! It's so good to see you." Professor Stokes drew open the door and ushered her in. "Come in, please."

"It's good to see you too, Professor."

"I'd no idea you were back," he said.

"Well, it was all rather sudden," she replied.

"May I get you some tea or coffee?"

"Coffee, please."

Professor Stokes disappeared into the kitchen and reemerged a short time later carrying the coffee service, which he set on the coffee-table in front of where Maggie sat on the couch.

"Cream and sugar?" he asked.

"Just cream, please." She watched him stir cream into hers and hand it to her. He added two sugar cubes and cream to his, and then took a seat opposite her in his favorite armchair.

"So, how do you find San Francisco?" he began.

"We like it very much. I'm sorry I don't write as often as a I should."

"Apologies are unnecessary," the professor returned graciously. "I was young once. I remember what it was like to immerse myself in a new locale—discovering all it has to offer."

"Yes—exactly," she said, with a distinct, but restrained smile.

"I was glad to get your letter from New Orleans," he said, in a serious tone.

"I can't tell you how much we appreciated Professor Dudoit and Marjorie."

"And the puzzle box?" he asked, referring to a powerful artifact that Maggie and Quentin were charged with securing.

"With the help of the Dudoits, we've hidden where it won't be discovered for another century at least," Maggie told him. Then she sighed, "But someday, it will be discovered and the thing that's confined inside will be unleashed on another unsuspecting soul." She thought of Joe Haskell, who suffered such a fate.

"You've done your part, Maggie—you've done all you can do, for it cannot be destroyed."

"Thanks, Professor. I mean, I know that intellectually, but it feels like we failed in a way. So, it helps to hear you say that."

The professor slowly nodded. He and Maggie sipped their coffee in silence for a few moments, before he renewed their conversation. "So, what brings you back to Collinwood?"

"Amy," Maggie said flatly. Then she elaborated. "Carolyn called, and she made things sound so dire." Here she paused and thought how to frame it. "It's my fault really. I didn't ask enough questions—or the right ones. I was left with the impression that Amy might be ill—or worse. So, I hopped on a plane and here I am."

"I see." The professor drained his cup, before continuing. "Amy is a remarkable young person."

"Yes, she is, but may I ask in which ways you find her so?"

He thought for a beat before saying, "Her interest in the past and her heritage—the way she's pursued knowledge with such seriousness and conviction—to say nothing of her friendship with Megan Todd. Most young people prefer the company of their peers."

"She has grown up so much since I left," Maggie said wistfully. "She's spoken so highly of Megan Todd. I should very much like to meet her," Maggie added with an unexpected pang of jealousy.

The professor consulted a pocket-watch he drew from the watch-pocket of his vest. "The shop should be open at this time of day. I'd be happy to accompany you there and introduce you."

Maggie finished her coffee in a single gulp and returned the cup to the tray. "Thank you. I'd like that."

* * *

As Professor Stokes escorted Maggie from his apartment to the main street of Collinsport and ultimately to the small antiques shop, the two chatted amiably about Maggie's travels and new life in San Francisco. Maggie had to slow her pace to match that of the older man, who moved at a more deliberate pace, both from necessity and inclination. As a result, by the time they reached the small storefront, Maggie had drawn the broad contours of her time away from her hometown. As they arrived at their destination, the professor noted that the establishment of the peculiar shop was one of the few changes in the slow-to-change town.

Ever gallant, Professor Stokes opened the door for Maggie, triggering the bell that announced them. The shop was cool, and seemed unusually dark to Maggie. Perhaps, she'd become accustomed to the little bookshop beneath her San Francisco flat that was always bright and welcoming in the morning—or so it seemed to her.

"Professor Stokes, back so soon?" A voice broke into Maggie's thoughts. "I'm afraid I don't have any new timepieces to show you, but I do have a pair of cufflinks that might interest you."

Maggie's eyes looked to match the voice to a face—and it was a handsome one, belonging to a man, she guessed was a few years older than her, well-dressed in a dark blue blazer topping a gray, turtleneck sweater.

Professor Stokes greeted him. "It's good to see you again, Mr. Todd, but I'm not here as a potential customer. I escorted my friend here on my way to the library."

Maggie could practically see Philip Todd deflate. His tone and manner completely altered. "Oh?" he said, in a way that clearly communicated his disappointment to Maggie.

The professor continued, "Yes, I'd like you to meet my dear friend, Maggie Collins. Maggie, this is Philip Todd."

"Did I hear correctly?" came a woman's voice from the rear of the shop.

"Yes, come and join us," Philip called, and then to Maggie, he added, "Pleased to meet you."

To Maggie's mind, he looked anything but. She could see him actively sizing her up. She wore a paisley blouse and jeans, topped by a hand-knitted fisherman's sweater. The braided headband and pendant necklace that she bought in San Francisco, communicated an aesthetic at odds with the values of Philip Todd. Still, she bore the Collins name, which told him that no matter how she dressed, she had Collins family resources at her disposal. "Nice to meet you," she said.

"My wife, Megan," Philip said, as Megan made her way to his side.

"Well," Professor Stokes said, "My duty here is done—introductions have been made, and I have other duties to attend to." He turned to Maggie. "When will I see you again, my dear? I should very much like to hear more about your travels."

"Tomorrow for tea?" she offered.

"Excellent," Stokes said then took his leave, leaving Maggie outnumbered by the Todds.

* * *

As soon as Professor Stokes departed, Philip Todd announced his intention to do the same. "Please excuse me, Mrs. Collins …"

"Maggie—please call me, Maggie."

"Very well. _Maggie_, please excuse me. Business takes me to Bangor today. I really should get going." He turned to his wife. "You'll be all right, won't you?"

For an instant, it seemed to Maggie, from the expression in Megan Todd's eyes, that she would beg her husband to stay. Instead, Megan said, "Of course, I'll be all right."

"Good," he said. "Because, I'll be working quite late. It's best if I stay there tonight." He planted a perfunctory kiss on his wife's cheek then headed upstairs, presumably to prepare for his short trip—leaving the two women alone together.

"So, you're Maggie," Megan broke the brief silence. "I've heard so much about you—from our mutual friend, Amy."

Megan's cool, appraising expression left Maggie cold. The older woman might be a friend to Amy, but her demeanor suggested that she would never be one to Maggie. Maggie put a friendly, but false smile on her face, and said, "Yes, Amy spoke about you too. Well, I've only been home for a day, but it's clear that she's quite taken with you."

Megan took a few steps closer to Maggie, in a motion that Maggie could only described as sashaying. But even in the dim light of the shop, Maggie could clearly see Megan's pallor. Megan clutched at a variegated blue scarf wrapped around her neck. Her dark-rimmed eyes looked at Maggie with a combination of contempt and jealousy. "It's a shame that you and your husband have chosen to live so far away," Megan said. "That child has endured so much abandonment—first her brothers, then you."

For a moment, Maggie felt the need to explain herself—to tell this woman that she barely knew, that she had to go away—that she cared for Amy, but could not stay at Collinwood. But no matter the temptation to fall back into being Maggie _Evans_, she was Maggie _Collins_ now. She had found new depth and layers to herself. "Amy is a remarkable child, but a child nonetheless," Maggie said in a steady tone. "There are things beyond her experience. When the time is right, I'll share them with her. Until then …" Maggie concluded with a hand gesture that she'd developed during her travels that was meant to convey finality.

Megan seemed to interpret it as being dismissed. She moved past Maggie, her hands on her swaying hips. "She's more than remarkable," Megan retorted, eyes ablaze. Now, she let go of the veneer of friendliness toward Maggie. "How little you know—how little you know about _her_. While you've been away, Amy has grown up. Did she tell you that I am teaching her about her culture? Did she tell you that she descends from a long line of strong, Romany women? Did she tell you that she possesses the gift? A gift she doesn't yet know how to harness—but _I _will teach her." Megan's eyes seemed wild; her head moved dramatically as she spoke. "She doesn't need you, Maggie. So, you might as well go back where you came from."

Megan's onslaught caught Maggie off-guard, but she retorted bitterly. "You're wrong, Megan. It was Amy who convinced me to come home. So, I guess she does need me." Then Maggie's own eyes flashed with indignation. She added, "It's you she doesn't need—and we both know why." Before Megan could protest or resist, Maggie stepped toward her, and pulled the scarf from her neck. It was as she suspected it would be, but seeing the two raw puncture wounds on Megan's neck brought a wave of bile to Maggie's throat.

"Get out," Megan hissed. "Get out!"

"Gladly," Maggie said, as she retreated from the shop and out onto the main street of Collinsport.

Maggie stumbled as she practically ran for a few steps, before gathering herself. She took a few more steps and found herself in front of the dress shop. She breathed deeply into her lungs—once, twice, a third time before she felt a knot in her chest, that she didn't know was there, begin to unwind. Worse than knowing that Barnabas had enslaved yet another of Collinsport's women, was the realization of Megan's place in Amy's life.

_Megan knows Amy better than I do—she understands Amy better than I do. _

Maggie's eyes looked unseeing into the shop window. She'd been unprepared. One of the things she'd learned during her travels with Quentin, and since they'd settled in San Francisco, was to be prepared. Quentin would have been disappointed, yet empathetic. He, himself, was given to acting on impulse. While in New Orleans, they had encountered a soul trapped between the planes of our world. Quentin had rushed to release it—to exorcise it—only to discover that the spirit was stronger and more determined to remain in this plane. Had Professor Dudoit and his wife, talented in her own right, not stepped in and rescued him, she might be a widow now.

It reminded her of the commitment she made to Amy the previous evening. If they were to take on Angelique, they must be prepared. For her, that would begin tomorrow when she met Professor Stokes for tea. He had been a friend and ally to the sorceress. Surely, he knew much about her that could benefit their cause. She would elicit what she could from him. She hated deceiving someone so dear to her, but … She caught the reflection of her eyes in the shop window, and wondered whether returning to Collinsport—to _Collinwood_—would somehow strip her of the strength and resolve she'd learned on the road. For all of their sakes, it must not be so.

* * *

Maggie sought to keep a low profile on her first day back in her hometown. She'd been tempted to go to the Inn or to the coffee shop following her run-in with Megan Todd. Instead, she returned to the estate and spent the day getting reacquainted with its many rambling lanes that traversed the woods, skirted the bluffs, and in Maggie's case, eventually and inevitably led to the farm where she and Quentin lived when they were first married.

Maggie let herself in. She had hoped that Carolyn might move in, but she could see how unrealistic that notion had been. They had left in relative haste, and so the house was still filled with their furnishings, though slipcovers blanketed the furniture, and other furnishings in storage boxes lined the rooms and filled the corners. As Maggie moved from room to room, it struck her how sad it was to see what had once been a home—_her home_—so still, quiet, and bereft of life.

She peeled back the slipcover that protected her favorite armchair and sat for a time, letting her thoughts wander. She loved her new life, but Collinwood, she thought, was home. It always would be. Her thoughts led her to the darkness and pain she'd experienced here—and still, it was home. Those memories were balanced against the happier, more carefree times—with Pop, Joe, Carolyn—and ultimately with Quentin. Being there filled a hole she didn't know existed.

Maggie shook off the melancholia, replaced the slipcover, and closed up the farmhouse once again. She took a slow walk around the grounds, lingering at the entrance to the root cellar that had been at the center of so many life-shaping events for her, but especially for Quentin. All at once, she wanted to see him—to be with him. But she would have to settle for a phone call instead.

As she made her way back through the woods to the Great House, she realized that time had gotten away from her, and it was now late afternoon. Carolyn would be heading into town to pick up David and Amy from school, and soon after, the sun would set and darkness would settle over the estate. She quickened her pace, anxious to get back.

When Maggie entered the Great House, she realized she had had very little to eat all day, and now, she desperately craved a cup of hot tea. She found Mrs. Johnson puttering around the kitchen. The housekeeper looked up when Maggie entered her domain. "Maggie, you look exhausted. Where have you been all day? We expected you for lunch."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Johnson. I went to the farm and lost track of time."

"So, you haven't eaten all day, Maggie?" Mrs. Johnson said in a scolding tone, "let me fix you a plate."

"No, thank you, Mrs. Johnson," Maggie returned. "But I could murder a cup of tea."

"Sit," the housekeeper ordered.

Maggie did as she was told, taking a seat at the small table in the kitchen that served as the housekeeper's desk and personal dining table. A few moments later, Mrs. Johnson joined her, placing two mugs of tea on the table, along with a plate of cookies, for which Maggie was immensely grateful, though she didn't realize it until she took her first bite.

"These are delicious, as usual, Mrs. Johnson," Maggie said, as she began to revive. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. It's always a pleasure to make something that's appreciated."

"Well, I promise I'll be here for dinner," Maggie said, then added, "I hope Roger will join us. I haven't seen him yet …"

"Nor will you," Mrs. Johnson interjected. "Not today anyway. He went out of town."

"Oh?"

"Yes—and …" Mrs. Johnson hesitated, as though considering whether to go on, though Maggie suspected it was mostly for effect. "Well, the whole town is whispering about it, so you might as well know. _She_ is also coincidentally out of town too."

"She?" Maggie asked.

"That _Angelique_ Bouchard." Mrs. Johnson practically spat the name. "It's disgraceful—the two of them carrying on like that." Mrs. Johnson was now on a roll and not to be denied having her say on the situation. "She's engaged to Mr. Barnabas, but that's not enough for her. No—she wants Roger too. But I don't blame her—not entirely," the housekeeper continued. "Who knows how she was raised? But Mr. Roger was brought up better than that. She must have bewitched him indeed, to make him behave like this."

"Mrs. Johnson!" Maggie said, wondering whether the older woman knew more than she let on.

"Well, it's just a figure of speech. All I mean is, we all know that certain women have certain _charms_, but I always gave Mr. Roger more credit than to fall for the likes of Angelique."

Maggie washed down her second cookie with a final gulp of tea. "Well, Mrs. Johnson," she said as she stood and took both mugs to the sink. "I'm disappointed to hear it."

"I didn't mean to gossip," Mrs. Johnson said, suddenly realizing that Maggie was now a Collins, not just a member of the household staff.

"It will go no further, Mrs. Johnson, but thank you for telling me."

* * *

Maggie next headed to the study. She knew now that it would be vacant. Elizabeth Stoddard typically used the library, while Roger Collins typically used the study as his office. Thus, she knew the study, with its extension phone, would provide a private place to make her call.

She dialed the long-distance number. A series of clicks followed, before she heard the ring of the phone, followed by a familiar, yet attenuated voice, "Mrs. Miller's House of Mystery, Magic and the Occult."

"Quentin."

"Maggie, it's good to hear your voice. I've missed it."

"Is this an okay time to talk? Is the shop busy?"

"Nobody's here, except me and Mr. Peepers." Maggie could picture Mrs. Miller's cat tiptoeing on the top of a bookcase, or annoying Quentin by cozying up and covering his pants with fur.

"And the proprietress?"

"Having lunch downtown with a coven of friends."

Maggie laughed.

"I've missed that too—the sound of your laugh," Quentin said. "When are you coming home?" And then remembering the purpose of her trip added, "How's Amy?"

"She's grown up so much since we've been away. You'd hardly recognize her."

"I doubt that, but is she doing better?"

Maggie drew a deep breath, and chose her words carefully. "She will be …"

"How long, Maggie? How much longer are you staying?" he asked.

There was an edge to his voice and Maggie could picture the impatience on his face. "I don't know yet," she said. "At least another week, maybe longer."

"And now, you're being evasive," he said sharply.

"Quentin, I just wanted to hear your voice, not provoke an argument—especially when we can't make up _properly_." Her voice was silky and seductive and had the intended effect.

"I'm sorry, Mags."

"Hey, don't call me that!"

"All right, _Mags_."

"Cut it out," she said in a faux angry tone.

"Only when I stop getting a rise out of you."

"You're worse than David."

"Maybe, but you love me anyway." He heard her giggle. "But seriously, Maggie, I miss you."

"I promise I'll call again soon," she said to soothe him.

"Promise me you'll come back soon," he returned.

"I promise I'll come back as soon as I can."

"I guess I'll have to settle for that."

"But you love me anyway," she said.

"That I do, but I have to tend shop now, someone's just come into the store."

"I love you too, Quentin," Maggie said in an emotion-choked voice.

She hung up the handset, but let her hand linger on it as though doing so somehow kept her connected to Quentin across the great distance that separated them.

"Ahem."

Maggie turned to find Carolyn standing in the doorway. She thought she'd closed the door, but it was possible that in her excitement to speak to Quentin, she'd left it ajar.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overhear," Carolyn said. A hint of a blush splashed across her nose and cheeks. Then she laughed lightly. "I haven't been standing here long though. Just long enough to confirm that you two are still sickeningly in love." Now, she entered the room fully.

"Really Carolyn, we have our problems just like other couples," Maggie huffed in response. Then she softened, "The truth is I'm a little worried about leaving him on his own. He's an attractive man—and he had a past before I met him."

"But he's never given you cause to worry, has he?"

"No, but our landlady seems like kind of a Mrs. Robinson type to me …" Then seeing her friend's expression, Maggie said, "I'm sorry, Carolyn. I'm worrying about nothing—it's silly really, but you've actually been there with Tony. I shouldn't have been so thoughtless."

"You don't have to apologize, but I really do miss him. I mean, I'm still angry with him, but if he came back …"

"You'd take him back?" Maggie asked though she knew the answer.

"Yes," Carolyn murmured. "But not without an ironclad agreement that he would never treat me that way again. It's a moot point anyway."

"Oh, why?"

"Because he won't come back as long as she's here. He doesn't trust himself around her," Carolyn said then heaved a deep sigh.

"Then we'll have to get rid of Angelique, one way or the other. But for all of our sakes, we mustn't fail."

* * *

At the Great House the sunset heralds the evening meal and the routines and rituals of its residents as they wind down their day and prepare for the next, but at the Old House on the estate, the coming night gives life to its chief resident, Barnabas Collins.

Barnabas rose to find his servant, Willie Loomis, waiting and pacing nervously beside his coffin. "What is it, Willie? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Barnabas. What makes you think something's wrong?" Willie replied. His nervous habit of wringing his hands belied his reaction.

"Where is _she_? Where is Angelique?" Barnabas asked, assuming his fiancé was to blame for Willie's unsettled behavior.

"She's away again," Willie said. "So is Roger," he added.

Genuine sadness suffused the vampire's countenance. "Will she ever tire of tormenting me?" he asked aloud rhetorically. He took a moment to recover himself. Thinking of how often recently, he'd neglected his family at the Great House, and sought the unique companionship of Megan Todd instead, he continued, "Perhaps with Roger away, I'll visit the Great House. It's been too long since I've seen my cousin Elizabeth."

"_No_, Barnabas," was Willie's emphatic response. "Don't go there."

"Why not, Willie?" Barnabas demanded. "What haven't you told me?"

Willie sighed and looked away. He had known that he could not keep the news from Barnabas indefinitely. He'd been lucky the previous night when Barnabas had woken with intent and purpose—and the desire to see Megan. "Just don't go there, Barnabas. All right?"

"No, Willie. Tell me. Tell me why I mustn't go to the Great House," Barnabas demanded again, in a tone so familiar and unwelcome to Willie.

Willie chewed his lower lip for a moment then responded in a quavering voice. "Maggie's come back for a visit."

"Maggie!" Then Barnabas added, "And Quentin?"

"He didn't come with her …" Willie began.

"Why not? Are they? …" Barnabas turned away from his servant to hide his expression of hope and anticipation.

But even without seeing Barnabas's face, Willie knew what he must be feeling—_desiring_. Once again, his instinct to protect Maggie—and ironically the lovelorn vampire as well—was stoked. "Maggie came on her own because she was worried about Amy. That's all I know—that and that she plans to go back—to Quentin."

Barnabas ascended the steps to the Old House entryway; Willie followed close on his heels. At the top of the stairs, as Barnabas began to don his caped coat, he said, "Quentin is my friend, and Maggie deserves to be happy. And yet—it's impossible for you to understand—my love for Josette will never die, and when I look at Maggie, it is _Josette_ I see."

"But she isn't Josette, Barnabas," was Willie's emphatic response.

"Intellectually, I know that, but I see her and my soul cries out for Josette," Barnabas said as he took his silver-handled cane from it's perch on the coat-rack.

"Wh-where are you going, Barnabas?" Willie's nervous stammer reasserted itself. "Please, Barnabas. Don't go!" Willie called after him, but Barnabas stalked off into the night.

* * *

After her second consecutive evening being peppered with questions over dinner, and adjusting to being back in Maine, Maggie found her energy flagging just a bit. Still, she was happy to escort David back to his room after dinner.

"Well, you're too old for me to read you a bedtime story," Maggie said as they ascended the main staircase.

"I've been too old for it for a long time, but it was still nice when you offered," David told her.

"I miss you too, David," Maggie said.

"I didn't say that I missed you, but I do. Don't get me wrong, I like school—I like it a lot, but I miss having you around. Why can't I go to school _and_ have you around too?"

Maggie felt a small lump of emotion gather in her throat.

When they reached the corridor that led to his room, David groused, "How come Amy doesn't have to go to her room now?"

"She'll be right behind you. We just need to speak with her. That's all."

"Is she in trouble?" he asked in a serious, concerned tone. "They're not going to send her away, are they?"

"_No, of course not_. It's nothing like that," was Maggie's emphatic response.

"Good, because it's not her fault really. She's changed a lot since you went away, but she _really_ changed after she met that Megan Todd and started hanging out at the antiques shop everyday after school."

"Yes, I gather Megan's been quite an influence on her." Maggie was struck by the fact that she was having an almost-adult conversation with David.

"Not always a good one," David said. By now, they had reached his room. "It's good to have you back," he said, and surprised her with an awkward, but genuine hug.

"It's good to be back, David," she said then headed back downstairs to the drawing room.

* * *

When Maggie entered the drawing room, she found Amy, Carolyn and Elizabeth waiting for her. "Where's Julia?" she asked. "Because we should all be here. If Julia isn't totally committed…" she began sharply.

Elizabeth interrupted her, "She'll be here."

Just then the front door of the Great House opened and Julia arrived. After removing her coat and gloves, and depositing her handbag and medical bag on the table in the foyer, she joined the others in the drawing room. Closing the door behind her, she accepted the offer of a brandy from Carolyn.

Amy began, sounding older, more knowledgeable and assured than her young age suggested. "We all agree that Angelique must go. I've told each of you—shown each of you …" Here she turned pointedly to Maggie, "What she's done, and why she should go."

"We all agree, she has to go," Elizabeth said in a rich contralto. "But _how_? Can you tell us how?"

When Amy responded, she seemed to Maggie to be someone else—not the girl she was when Maggie left Collinwood. "There is a ritual—a _banishment_ ritual or spell, so to speak. For generations, women have banded together to banish their own who transgress."

Megan had been right—Amy _had_ grown up, Maggie thought. _But she's still a child—a child who has perhaps taken on too much._

Amy went on speaking. "We can only do this together—the spell will only work when attempted by a circle of women—women committed and strong in their hearts and minds." She spoke in a trance-like sing-song voice.

Maggie paced away to the bay window, leaving the others clustered together by the fireplace. Beyond the window, the sound of an animal baying sent a shiver down her spine. Amy was still speaking, but for a moment Maggie's mind was far away and terror crept into her heart.

She was drawn back when she heard Amy address her. "I wish you would have come back sooner, Maggie. We've missed the full moon."

"The full moon?" Maggie was flooded with unspoken emotion by its invocation.

"Yes, the full moon will strengthen us. We can draw on its power," Amy said.

"But it will strengthen Angelique as well. And, I've seen her power under its influence."

"So, what are you saying?" Julia asked.

"Instead of trying to draw strength from the full moon, perhaps we should try to strike at her when _her_ power is waning—under the _new_ moon," Maggie said.

* * *

Barnabas had stood at the edge of the woods looking up at the window of the room that he knew was home to every governess at Collinwood, including Maggie in her time in that role. A dull light illuminated the room through its drawn curtains. At this time of evening, it was unlikely that she was there. Instead the house would still be alive with evening activities—dinner in the dining room, conversation in the drawing room, and homework for the children. He stood apart from such a life.

A wave of sadness and despair washed over him. Willie could not understand—nor could Julia. He alone understood the longing; he alone understood the isolation. He alone understood that a place in his heart would forever be vacant, unless filled by Josette—his dear, Josette. No matter the odds or passage of time, it was still and would always be that that animated him. Knowing that Maggie was so close by—close enough to touch—to hold—only made the longing more palpable—and also made the impossibility of his situation clear. Without the music-box, without a cure, and affianced to Angelique, Josette was out of reach—more remote than ever.

As he turned away from the Great House, he resolved not to see Maggie—at least not that night. Still, the longing created a void that must be filled—and only one thing would do.

A short time later, he transformed into a creature of the night, and sought comfort where he could—and from whom he could. Megan stood ready—wordlessly offered her self to him—and he took what he needed. He drew sustenance from her and strength. He lost himself in her offering, sublimating his pent-up desire to seek out Maggie—to make Maggie, as Megan was, so very willing—to make Maggie what Megan could never be, _Josette_.

Megan was so willing that Barnabas failed to notice her gentle quaking. Instead, he poured into her the frustration, anguish, and above all, the sheer _loneliness_ of his existence.

He found no satiation that night. There could be none. When his fangs retracted, he found the hunger gone, but his loneliness as strong as ever. He laid Megan on the bed. Her expression was impossible to read, but a single tear trailed from her eye. A small smile struggled to her lips. It was more than Barnabas could bear—more than he wanted to bear.

He turned away, transformed once more, and disappeared, as he'd come.


	10. Chapter 10

For the women of the Collinwood estate, the night ended with a sense of exhilaration. Each, with her individual motivation, has agreed to collective action to remove an unwelcome presence from the estate. But that exhilaration will be short-lived, for unbeknownst to them, events have taken place that will cast a pall over some of the estate's residents, and raise the specter of an evil temporarily forgotten.

* * *

Elizabeth Collins Stoddard was jolted awake from a deep sleep. She'd had difficulty falling asleep the previous night. She'd been excited and anxious about their plans to perform the banishment ritual. She kept turning it over and over in her mind—they were putting their trust in a child. It worried her, and yet the prospect of banishing Angelique from Collinwood and from their lives—well, the reward was worth the risk.

In the end, Elizabeth had made her way downstairs and returned to her room with a full snifter of brandy—and it had worked on her nervous energy and quieted her busy mind, and she'd fallen asleep. As she finally allowed sleep to take her, she'd given herself permission to stay in bed as long as she liked the next morning. So, the loud trilling of the phone beside her bed was most unwelcome. She ignored the first ring—surely someone else was awake and would answer it. The second ring seemed more insistent than the first.

By the third ring, she'd given up hope that someone else would take care of it. _Where is everyone?_ She wondered. She rolled over and lifted the handset. But before she could speak, she realized that someone had answered on the extension.

"Collinwood Estate," she heard Mrs. Johnson say.

"Is Doctor Hoffman there?" A man's voice asked.

"Yes, may I tell her who is calling?" Mrs. Johnson's voice was officious, mingled with curiosity.

"Tell her Philip Todd is calling—and tell her it's urgent, please," returned the man.

Elizabeth hung up the extension and decided it was time to get up. As she donned her robe, she wondered what the call from Philip Todd was about. Although she'd not met him personally, she knew him by reputation. She stepped into her leather mules and headed downstairs in search of coffee—and perhaps, an answer to her curiosity.

As she reached the foyer, she heard Julia Hoffman's voice coming from the drawing room.

"Of course," the doctor said. "I'll get my medical bag and be there as soon as possible."

Even as Elizabeth heard the doctor hang up the phone, Julia emerged from the drawing room, already dressed for the day, as she usually was at this time of the morning. But the doctor was moving with unusual alacrity that suggested the urgency of the situation. Although she had no desire to be an impediment, Elizabeth couldn't help but ask, "Julia? Is everything all right?"

"An urgent medical matter in town …" Julia responded, already ascending the stairs to retrieve her medical bag.

Elizabeth watched her go then turned toward the family dining room with its promise of coffee and breakfast.

* * *

When Julia Hoffman arrived at the antiques shop, it was still dark inside and the "closed" sign hung in the window of the shop door. She knocked and waited. Then she knocked again more assertively. Just as she prepared to knock a third time, Philip Todd appeared and opened the door. Say what one would about Philip Todd, Julia would characterize him as a "cool customer." He was confident to the point of arrogant, winning to the point of smarmy. Above all, he was handsome and put together. In their weeks of acquaintance, Julia had never once seen him otherwise—at least, not until he opened the door to the shop that morning. The collar of his blue button-down shirt was open, and the sleeves were rolled up. He was wearing slacks, but remarkably had come downstairs barefoot.

"Thank goodness you're here, Dr. Hoffman," he began. "It's Megan—she's taken a turn for the worse."

Julia brushed past him on her way upstairs. She heard the click of the lock behind her, and a moment later, Philip joined her. She entered the Todd's bedroom to find it darkened; the heavy drapes drawn shut. Julia went at once to Megan's side. She took Megan's pale hand, which was cool to the touch, in hers. She felt for her patient's faint pulse.

"How long has she been like this?" Julia demanded.

"I'm not sure. I … I just got back from Bangor an hour ago and she was …" Philip uncharacteristically choked up.

"You should have called me at once," Julia said angrily.

"She didn't want me to," he returned feebly, tears in his eyes.

Before Julia could either chastise or comfort him, Megan's eyes opened. "I can give you another transfusion, Megan," the doctor said.

"No, Julia. We're only delaying the inevitable—and I _welcome_ it. I welcome what's to come."

Now, Philip spoke. He moved to his wife's bedside. "Don't, Megan—don't talk nonsense. Let her give you a transfusion."

"No, Philip. It's time."

"You don't know what you're saying," he began, an edge to his voice. Then he tried a different tack. He took her hand. "Please, Megan, have the transfusion. I promise I'll change. I promise—no more trips to Bangor—or anywhere else—_I promise_. I'll be the kind of husband you deserve," he pleaded.

A wicked smile came to her eyes, though her lips were too weary to follow suit. "I plan to hold you to that," she said.

* * *

Julia sat in the Todd's kitchen and waited while Philip said his final goodbye to Megan. For a moment, Julia had not wanted to leave him alone with his dying wife, lest he discover the guilty secret Megan bore on her neck. But in the end, sympathy and decency won out over the need to protect Barnabas. And too, there were other measures she could employ should it become necessary.

While she waited, Julia perked a pot of coffee. When Philip emerged and joined her, she poured him a cup without asking whether he wanted one. Julia knew from experience that it would comfort him in some indefinable way. They sat at the kitchen table in silence for a few minutes, each sipping coffee and entertaining their own thoughts. Philip broke the silence by saying, "I don't understand how this could happen. She was doing so much better."

"Clearly, she took a turn for the worse," Julia offered. "Medical conditions such as hers can be unpredictable."

"I don't blame you, Dr. Hoffman. I know you did everything you could to help her." Philip looked into his cup. "I should have been here," he said miserably.

Though Julia longed to agree with him, she said instead, "It does no good to reproach your self, Philip." She took a sip of coffee then continued, "I know you're still in shock, but there are practical matters to consider. Perhaps I can help with that."

"I need to contact her family," he began.

"Oh?" Julia asked with a raised eyebrow and a pang of self-interest. "I didn't think she was close to her family."

"She's not—not since she married me," he confessed. "But I'm sure there are customs—traditions—to be observed. I think she'd want that."

Julia's mind was already a step ahead of him. She was already contemplating not only Megan's family traditions, but also the medical necessities that could not be avoided. She would have to intervene to ensure that no one connected Megan's death to the mysterious deaths of the unfortunate souls who turned up dead dockside in Collinsport or in the adjacent woods, so often attributed to animal attacks. It was imperative that Megan's death remain a medical mystery. There was much to be done.

* * *

It had been a nearly perfect day from Amy's point of view. She could not remember the last time she felt so happy—happy and carefree. One of the neighboring estates had recently been restored to its original 18th century condition and opened for public tours. Carolyn and Maggie had decided it would make for a fun and educational outing. So, Mrs. Johnson had packed a picnic lunch for them, and Carolyn, Maggie, David, and Amy had spent the day out.

A tour guide had shown them through the house. It was so much simpler than Collinwood, but they had enjoyed seeing the old-fashioned kitchen, snug bedrooms, and sitting room with its low ceiling and large hearth. After the official tour, they were allowed to tour the grounds of the estate on their own. The four of them had toured the stables and vegetable garden together then sat down to have lunch at one of the picnic tables on the fringes of the estate grounds provided for visitors.

After lunch, while Carolyn and Maggie sat talking about the latest fashions, and generally catching up, Amy and David went off to explore the estate grounds on their own. David had made up a game for them to play as they explored, and was being bossy about enforcing the rules. But Amy didn't mind—it was fun and silly. It was like being a kid again.

It wasn't until Carolyn turned the car down the drive that led to the Great House that the weight of foreboding returned to Amy's small shoulders. Though David was still yammering about having won the game, and Carolyn was gently chastising him for being overbearing, their voices receded in Amy's mind and she was reminded of what lay ahead of them. She was reminded that a carefree day such as the one she spent was a respite from their usual lives, not the stuff of their daily existence—_that_ lay ahead.

As soon as they reentered the house, Amy felt the need to seek reassurance. On the previous night, she had turned to the cards, but they offered her no solace, only an intensified feeling of responsibility for what was to come. Now, she wanted to consult a different source—her divining crystal. Thus far, it had not let her down.

So, when they arrived in the foyer, Amy announced, "I'm going up to my room until dinner."

"Aw, come on, Amy. I thought we could continue our game here," David whined.

"I'm sorry, David. I really feel like reading this book I borrowed from the library. It's really long and I only have two weeks to finish it," Amy dissembled in response.

Maggie intervened. "David, why don't you and I find a game to play, or put together a jigsaw puzzle?"

"That's okay, Maggie. I guess I'll just go to my room too. A friend loaned me some car magazines …"

"Car magazines?" Carolyn was incredulous.

"Yes, car magazines. It won't be long before I'm 16 and able to drive myself, you know," was David's retort.

Maggie smiled. "He's right, Carolyn—as terrifying as that is."

"Hey …" David began.

Carolyn interrupted. "All right, you two, go on upstairs. We'll see you at dinner."

Amy was already ascending the stairs. David joined her, pushing past her and running up the steps.

* * *

Once in the privacy of her own room, Amy locked the door and brought out the crystal. She set it on her desk, closed her eyes, and placed her hands on either side of it. Their outing had been a welcome break, but now it was time to return her thoughts to the ritual. She tried to picture it—to picture the others who would join her. She opened her eyes. A thin fog swirled inside the crystal then slowly began to clear.

_She was in the hallway outside of her room. She followed the hall, not in the direction that led to the main staircase, but in the opposite direction. At the end of the hall, she turned right and followed the connecting corridor to its end. It led to the east wing—no longer used by the family, but not locked and forbidden like the west wing. _

_It was dusty and unused. The assorted pieces of furniture and paintings that hung in the corridors, were covered with slipcovers and sheeting to protect them. The corridor was wide—wider than those in the main part of the Great House. At the far end, where it ended, there was a set of double doors to the right. _

It was there that Amy was being led—it was there that she must go.

* * *

Amy peeked out of the door to her room. No one was around. She walked quickly and quietly down the hall then followed the route that the crystal revealed to her. The corridor was exactly as it appeared in the crystal. It led her there for a reason. _It must have_, she thought. _And the reason must be behind those doors._

As she approached the double doors, Amy's throat constricted; her breaths came out short and shallow. She knew it was fear, excitement, and anticipation manifesting all at once. Her hands paused on the dual doorknobs. She drew a deep inhalation and entered.

Now, she was mystified. The room was empty, except for a table or a desk that was covered with a dusty sheet. It was just like the hallway—abandoned and unused. _Why?_ She wondered. _Why did it lead me here?_ She took a step back and pulled the doors closed. She took a step, as though to leave, but something held her back. _There must be something here! Something important or the crystal wouldn't have led me here. I have to find it._

Now that she knew that there was nothing to be afraid of inside, Amy opened the doors swiftly. She gasped aloud. The room, that a moment before had been a monument to disuse, had been transformed. The room was now filled with furnishings. The desk was no longer covered; a piano stood in the far corner—a chaise lounge beside it. Amy took it all in with a sweep of her eyes. _How? How did it change?_

Amy's eyes came to rest on a painting hanging above the mantle. It was covered with a drape of heavy black fabric. She approached it on tiptoes. Her fingers trembled a little as she reached up, took the corner of the drape, and drew it to one side.

"Oh!" she said aloud. _I don't understand._ There, beneath the drape was a portrait of Angelique. And though it was clearly of the sorceress, it was different too. Amy had never seen Angelique dressed in evening attire, resplendent with jewels and a sophisticated coiffure, but there was no mistaking it—_it was her_.

Amy, her eyes still wide with wonder, let the drape drop, and slowly backed out of the room. She closed the doors, but her hands remained on the doorknobs as though frozen there. She couldn't comprehend what she'd seen—it didn't make sense to her.

"Ha! I knew I'd find you!" Amy's whole body jumped at the sound of his voice. "What are you doing here, Amy?" David asked. "If you were going to go exploring, why didn't you ask me to come along?"

"I … I …" Amy stammered.

Before she could gather herself, David went on, "What's in there anyway?" He glanced around Amy, who still had one hand on the doorknob.

"Let's go, David. I'm sorry I came here. I don't like it here." The words tumbled out unbidden.

"Is there something scary in there?" he asked with a smile, and an adventuresome look in his eyes.

"Nothing like that," Amy said. "Let's go."

"Sure, Amy," David said as he pushed past her. "As soon as I see what's in here." He pushed the door open.

"David …" Amy began, but stopped when she beheld the room. It was vacant again—unoccupied as it had been when she first opened it. Her eyes went wide.

"There's nothing in here, Amy. Why were you acting like that?"

"I don't know," she murmured. A part of her wanted to tell him, but another part—the growing secretive part—held her back. "Like I said, it's nothing—I just don't like it here. Let's go."

Amy turned and retreated down the corridor. She heard David shut the doors. A moment later, he joined her and gently ribbed her for acting so strange all the way back to their rooms.

It was only when Amy reentered her own room and plopped down on her bed that her mind began to make sense of the strange room in the east wing. The crystal had led her to the perfect place to conduct the ritual—_that_ had been its intention. _But why? Why there? And how—how had the room changed like that?_ It was as though the room itself was teasing her, winking at her.

* * *

"I know you must be missing Quentin like mad," Carolyn began, tucking her feet underneath her on the davenport, "but I'm so glad you're here. I've missed you, Maggie."

"I've missed you too."

"Yeah, but it's not the same for you. You have Quentin—and you're having this amazing adventure—traveling … living in San Francisco … where as, I have nothing to look forward to and no one to talk to."

"Come on, Carolyn. It can't be that bad. What about Megan Todd? What do you think of her? Are you two friends?" Maggie asked.

"She's all right, I guess," Carolyn said. "But she's hardly someone I'd confide in—not like you."

Maggie rose and went to the liquor cabinet and poured a sherry for each of them. She handed one to Carolyn, and then raised her glass. "To good friends."

They each took a sip. Then Carolyn continued, "So what did you think of her—Megan, I mean."

"Not much," Maggie admitted. "But Amy seems to like her, and she seems to care about Amy." Maggie felt as though she'd said enough. She received a temporary reprieve when the phone rang. She called in the direction of the foyer, "I have it, Mrs. Johnson," and went to answer the phone. "Hello."

* * *

When Maggie hung up the phone she turned and saw Carolyn's expectant face. Carolyn stood at once and approached her. "What is it, Maggie? What's wrong?"

Maggie's hand unconsciously went to her throat. "It's Megan Todd," she said. "She's dead." Maggie gathered herself and continued, "Apparently, Julia's been treating her for a rare blood condition. Last night, she took a turn for the worse, and died this morning."

"How awful!" Carolyn said. "I can't believe it."

"I'm afraid it's true, and of course, Amy will have to be told."

"She'll take it hard," Carolyn said, with a slow shake of her head. "She and Megan were close."

"Yes. So I gather. Carolyn, I think it's better if she hears it from you," Maggie said.

"_Me_?"

"Yes. Things are different since I moved away, and she …"

Carolyn cut her off. "She's a kid, Maggie—and she's missed you—she puts on a hard façade because she doesn't want anyone to know she's hurting. So, she acts very grown up, but she's suffered a lot of loss in her young life. You know what that's like."

"I remember the day Pop told me about my mom," Maggie said softly, letting the memory of Pop's face and voice fill her mind. She drew a deep breath. "Waiting won't make it any easier," she said. Buoyed by Carolyn's affectionate smile, she made her way to Amy's room.

Maggie knocked and waited until she heard Amy say, "Come in."

Amy's voice sounded light. Maggie dreaded being the one to dim that light, but she opened the door, took a tentative step inside, and closed the door behind her. Amy was sprawled on her stomach on her bed, reading a book.

"Amy, I need to speak to you."

Amy moved a bookmark from the back of the book to mark her place. She pushed herself to sitting. "What is it, Maggie?"

For the first time, since she'd returned to Collinwood, Amy's voice sounded like the little girl, Maggie had left behind. Maggie felt a lump gather in her throat. "I have some bad news, Amy—really bad," Maggie said, sitting down on the edge of the bed facing Amy. "It's Megan," Maggie began.

Amy finished for her. "She's dead, isn't she?"

"Yes, but how did you know?"

"It was foretold. I saw it in the cards," Amy said. "I was worried about her. So, I read the cards. Darkness had descended on Megan. There was nothing that anyone could have done to save her."

"I'm so sorry. I know you two were close," Maggie said, pushing aside her lingering feelings about her encounter with Megan the previous day. A long moment of silence ensued, during which Maggie took Amy's hands in hers. "Do you want to talk about it? It helps."

"It's okay, Maggie. _I'm_ okay," Amy said, though tears were gathering like storm-clouds in her eyes. She turned her eyes away from Maggie's gaze.

Sensing—knowing—Amy's discomfort in that moment, Maggie sought a distraction. "What are you reading?" she asked.

Amy withdrew her hands from Maggie's and reached for the well-thumbed volume. "_Jane Eyre_. I've already renewed it twice, so I guess I have to finish it. But every time I start to read it something else comes up."

"I read it when I was a little older than you are," Maggie said, lightness returning to her tone. She took the book from Amy, turned and situated herself against the headboard, opened the book and began to read aloud.

_October, November, December passed away. One afternoon in January, Mrs. Fairfax begged for a holiday for Adele, because she had a cold; and, as Adele seconded the request with an ardour that reminded me how precious occasional holidays had been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it …_

Amy rested her head in Maggie's lap. Maggie stroked Amy's hair and continued.

… _deeming that I did well in showing pliability on that point. It was a fine day, though very cold …_

As Maggie continued to read, she felt the lap of her jeans grow damp, as Amy allowed her tears to fall.

* * *

Julia was waiting impatiently on the corner across the street from the Collinsport Hospital. It was now late afternoon of what had been a dreadful day—and there was more to come.

Earlier that day …

Julia had known Philip Todd to be vain and self-centered, but she was unprepared for his whiny intransigence. His insistence that Megan's family come at once and see to her body, was less a function of concern, and more one of wanting to be done with his late wife. He told Julia more than once how much he was looking forward to resuming the lifestyle he enjoyed before marrying Megan. Megan's body was still in the bedroom when he began discussing which items he would dispose of, and which he would take with him to New York. He supposed that the women in Megan's family would want to take their pick of her clothes and jewelry. Megan's family, he surmised, would take responsibility for her burial—saving him both time and expense. This, he justified by telling Julia that it was what Megan would have wanted.

Julia, to her credit, recognized that her own motives with respect to Megan's remains were far from pure. But then, she was not intimately connected to Megan, as Philip was. Julia was motivated by one overriding concern—that Megan's body not be removed from Collinsport before sunset. In the end, she had persuaded Philip to delay calling Megan's family for a day, while she dealt with Dr. Woodard—an old friend, as she told Philip—and made sure that Megan would not undergo an autopsy or other procedures that would prolong matters. To this—and for this reason—he finally agreed.

Then Julia was left with one other problem—her lab in the basement of the antiques shop. With Megan gone, there would be no reason for Julia to frequent the shop. And with Angelique still ensconced on the estate, Julia could not risk moving it back to the Old House, nor could she move it to the Great House without raising unwelcome questions. No, for the time being, she must have access to the basement of the antiques shop. She knew what she needed to do.

Philip Todd wore the look of vulnerability that often accompanied the shock of unexpected death—and though Julia gave him little credit for it, grief as well. His vulnerability would aid her cause. His vulnerability would make him more pliable—more susceptible to what was to come. "I know it's a terrible time to ask this, but perhaps it will take your mind off of …"

"Megan," he said.

"Yes, while we wait for the coroner."

"What is it, Dr. Hoffman?" His voice was both wary and impatient; his glazed eyes stared down unfocussed at the table.

"Will you look at something for me?" She went to her bag and returned with a small object in her hand. It was hidden from his view, save for a gold chain that dangled between her fingers. "Since I don't know when I'll see you again, I'm hoping you will take a look at it."

When he looked up, Julia stood before him. A bejeweled, gold medallion twisted in front of him. She spoke in a soothing, modulated voice. "It's been in my family for a long time—for generations," she continued. "Do you see the way the jewels reflect the light—the way they draw you in?"

"Yes," he murmured.

"Good. It is said that if you follow the light it will lead you to the center of the jewel."

His hand reflexively reached for it. Julia feared she had lost the moment. "Follow the light, Philip. Follow the light to the center of the jewel." Then he lowered his hand, as though it lost the will to move.

"Keep looking at the jewels and the light they reflect," Julia said. "Follow the light—follow it deep into the heart of the jewel. Do you see the heart of the jewel, Philip?" she asked, her voice unchanged.

"Yes," he said. "I see it."

"Good. Now I want you to raise your right hand," Julia said. Philip did as she suggested. "Good. You may lower it." Again, he followed her direction. "Now, there's something you need to know—something very important and you mustn't forget it. There is something in the basement of the shop—something fearsome, something dangerous. Every time you attempt to enter the basement, you will remember the danger—faceless, terrifying danger—and you will be consumed by fear. Do you understand, Philip?"

"Yes," he said, his blank eyes never leaving the medallion twisting before him.

"If you want to avoid the danger and the fear, you mustn't go near the basement. You mustn't attempt to enter it. Do you understand, Philip?"

"Yes—there's danger in the basement," he said in a dazed but panicky voice.

"Good. Now I want you to follow my voice—follow it back to the kitchen. When the medallion no longer turns, you will come back, back into the kitchen, but you won't remember having followed my voice—the only thing you will remember is the danger below." Julia's deft fingers slowed the turning medallion until it stopped.

"May I take a closer look at it?" Philip asked.

"Of course," Julia replied as she placed the medallion in his proffered palm.

Philip looked at it with a critical eye. Then he said to Julia, "It's an interesting piece. I've seen a number like it over the years." Full-of-himself Philip was back. "The gold is real, but the stones are cut-glass. It's a high-quality fake of the type that was very popular in the 19th century. People kept the real jewels locked away and had fakes made to wear in public."

"Thank you, Philip," she said with secret smugness. "I've always wanted to get a professional assessment of it."

A short time later, the coroner's panel van arrived and Julia carefully oversaw the removal of Megan's lifeless body to the small morgue of the Collinsport hospital.

* * *

In an impatient gesture, Julia looked down at her watch for the third time in as many minutes. Otherwise, she kept her eyes trained on the corner. The sun was already low in the sky. At last, she saw him round the corner and move toward her, in his distinctive, leisurely gait. Eliot Stokes carried an old, but well cared for briefcase.

"Thank you for coming, Eliot. I appreciate your help."

"Of course. I'm happy to be of service, Julia, but I'm sorry it has come to this," the professor responded. "How do you propose we gain access to the morgue?"

"The old-fashioned way," Julia said, opening her handbag and drawing out two crisp bills from within.

Julia led Stokes to the lesser-used side entrance to the hospital. It was hardly the bustling environment one found in big city hospitals, and Julia was known to many of the staff. So, she behaved as though she was visiting a patient, but rather than continuing on to the patient ward at the end of the corridor, she pulled the professor by the arm and ducked into the stairwell that led to the hospital's lower level which housed the morgue.

They had the corridor to themselves. Julia gave three short, but authoritative raps on the door. Almost at once, a young man opened it. He was pale, tall, lean and looked every bit a caricature of someone who would work in the morgue. It was clear too, that he and Julia were acquainted.

"Tom," she said, reaching in her handbag and handing the young man the money.

"I can only give you 10 minutes, Dr. Hoffman," he said taking the proffered bills.

Julia looked at her watch and then at Eliot. "It should be just enough." Then she added, "Oh, and Tom, why don't you go upstairs and get some coffee. We need some privacy."

The young man's suspicious eyes moved from one to the other. But he pocketed his windfall and said, "Sure thing, Dr. Hoffman." Then he was gone.

Julia opened the door to the small, refrigerated inner room. There were two gurneys, draped with white sheets, holding the remains of Collinsport's latest deceased. Julia lifted the corner of the first. Underneath was the death-gray face of an elderly man. Julia let out a breath she didn't realized she'd been holding. She turned to the second gurney.

Julia pulled back the sheet to reveal Megan Todd. Philip, with Julia's prompting, had declined to have an autopsy performed, citing Megan's cultural objection. For all of her medical training, Julia was unprepared for the wave of nausea that overtook her. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, and turned away.

Professor Stokes took her by the elbow and drew her away to the side. He opened the briefcase and took out his tools—a thick wooden stake and a mallet. He said to Julia, "You must be careful, Julia. When the time comes, do not look at her. Do not listen to her."

Julia nodded wordlessly, surprised by her body's betrayal, and by her twin feelings of guilt and sympathy for what was to come.

"It won't be long now," Stokes said. He stole a sympathetic glance at Julia. Then he positioned the stake over Megan's heart.

Megan's eyes fluttered open. She turned her head toward Julia. "Julia, is that you? _Help me_, Julia." Julia turned to face her, but it was too late. The professor, who kept his eyes trained on the implements of destruction, raised the mallet and drove home the stake. Megan's piercing shriek reverberated through the small room. But to Julia's ears, what was worse was Megan's blood-choked gasp as she expired—her existence as the undead ended before it truly began.


	11. Chapter 11

The thinnest sliver of a waning moon disappearing in the morning sky, signals that a fateful day has arrived for the women of Collinwood. Though a veil of grief hangs over some in their ranks, and one of doubt over others, their commitment has not wavered. It is the youngest among them, Amy Jennings, her grief still raw, who galvanizes them to act.

* * *

The day that dawned was as dark and foreboding as the moonless night it would usher in. Black, threatening clouds blanketed the Collinwood estate.

It stood in stark contrast to the previous day—the day on which Megan Todd was laid to rest was fair with white wispy clouds dotting the sky. Julia Hoffman had personally and meticulously seen to all of the arrangements. Using the pretext of Megan's cultural beliefs, Julia had personally taken responsibility for preparing the body for burial. Philip, still in the daze of grief, had readily acceded to Julia's suggestions. She had thrown off the emotions that had emerged in the morgue. Now, clear-headed again, she had taken charge.

The timely ceremony was held at the Eagle Hill Cemetery. Only a small klatch of mourners attended—the grieving widower, Philip Todd; Amy accompanied by Maggie; Professor Stokes; and of course, Julia Hoffman. Sheriff Patterson, though also in attendance, made clear that his presence was strictly professional in nature.

Following the terse service, the sheriff waylaid Philip and Julia to clarify the circumstances of Megan's death and the necessity for such a quick burial. Most of their answers he found satisfactory, but a few elicited a raised eyebrow and a sound the sheriff made in the back of his throat that spoke his doubts for him. Julia Hoffman, a practiced dissembler, was more than up to the task, but Philip Todd's haughty self-importance suggested guilt where there was none—at least not on his part.

At one point, Philip huffed indignantly causing Julia to lay a restraining hand on his arm, and say, "Calm down, Philip. The sheriff is just doing his job. Isn't that right, Sheriff Patterson?"

The sheriff eyed her warily before answering, "That's right Dr. Hoffman. Just dotting the i's and crossing the t's. Mr. Todd hasn't lived in Collinsport long enough to know that I take every death seriously. Isn't that right, Dr. Hoffman?" the sheriff asked, mirroring her turn of phrase.

Before Julia could muster a response, Philip said, "Well, I've lived here long enough to recognize untoward questions that invade my privacy." Now, genuine tears came to his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sheriff," he sniffled through his oncoming tears. "As you can imagine, I'm not at my best. Megan's death has hit me hard."

The sheriff flipped his small notebook shut and said, "That's okay, son. I understand. I think I have everything I need from you." To Julia, he said, "Dr. Hoffman, if I have any more questions, I'll give you a call at Collinwood."

Julia then accompanied Philip back to the antiques shop. There, he accepted her offer of a sedative to help him sleep through the night. Once she was sure he was down for the night, she returned to her lab and resumed her work.

* * *

At the same time, Professor Stokes had escorted Maggie and Amy back to the Great House. Amy told them at once that she was going up to her room. When Maggie moved to follow her, Professor Stokes intervened. "I'm not a child psychologist, but I imagine Amy needs some time on her own to grieve."

Maggie sucked at her bottom lip then conceded, "Yes, I suppose she does. It's just that I'm worried about her."

"Understandable," the professor said as he followed Maggie into the drawing room.

Maggie went to the liquor cabinet and without asking his preference, poured them each a glass of sherry. "It's just that she's grown up so much—and I think she takes too much on her self for someone so young." Maggie resumed her previous train of thought, as they sat—he in the armchair and she on the davenport.

"Yes, life has dealt her a very bad hand, but I daresay she is all the more resilient for it," the professor said. He turned the conversation. "I'm sorry we've not seen more of one another during your visit. I'm afraid I've been spending quite a bit of time at the University lately. Sometimes, I don't return until quite late."

"And what about Angelique? Does she still visit you?" she asked, a hint of jealousy mingled with protectiveness in her tone.

A deep baritone chuckle rumbled in the professor's chest. "No, she rarely does. In fact, she's been keeping a rather low profile of late, but if the talk in Collinsport is to be believed, Roger Collins would know where to find her. Is there a particular reason you asked about her?" Professor Stokes eyed her narrowly.

Maggie played it off. "Not a particular reason. As you say, she's been keeping a low profile and I'd rather not run into her if I can avoid it."

"Is there something else, Maggie? Something more about Angelique?"

Maggie met the professor's shrewd eyes; she willed her own to reveal as little as possible. "No—nothing. What else could there be?"

"I don't know. Yet I sense you are concerned about her."

"I'd be a fool not to be concerned about her," Maggie began. Then she demurred again. "But no—it's nothing really." She willed her face not to betray her anxiety. She could feel the professor silently assessing her.

Professor Stokes drained his glass and lifted his large frame from the chair. "Well, if you're sure, I should be going," he said.

Maggie escorted him through the foyer to the entryway.

He said, "I suppose you'll be extending your stay on Amy's account."

"Yes, a few more days for certain," she said. "But Quentin is getting antsy for me to return."

"I don't blame him." The professor's avuncular tone returned. "You won't leave Collinwood without saying goodbye, will you?"

"Never," Maggie said, gracing him with a warm smile.

* * *

The following day, on the morning of the new moon, Elizabeth Stoddard was up, dressed, and waiting for Mrs. Johnson to emerge from the back of the house.

When Mrs. Johnson joined her, she was wearing her coat and hat, and held her gloves in her hand. "Are you sure there's nothing I can pick up for you while we're in Bangor?" she asked her employer.

"No, nothing, thank you. Just go and enjoy your visit with your sister," Elizabeth returned.

"Well," Mrs. Johnson began as a worried look creased her brow, "it's a rare treat to be sure."

"That's why I suggested it."

"We'll be gone two whole days. Are you sure you can manage without me for that long?" Mrs. Johnson wrung the gloves in her hands as she asked this.

"We'll be fine," Elizabeth reassured her. "The only thing you need to worry about is that Harry gets you there and back safely."

Mrs. Johnson finally nodded her acquiescence, and took her leave, muttering something under her breath that Elizabeth couldn't quite make out, but felt sure was about Harry.

With Mrs. Johnson and Harry out of the way, all that remained was to ensure that Roger and David were similarly situated.

* * *

Elizabeth cornered her brother in the study. She entered without the courtesy of a knock, and found him still digesting the morning newspaper.

"Really, Liz," Roger fumed. "It's customary to knock before entering the room."

"I thought we'd done away with decorum," she shot back. Before he could parry, she continued, "We have business to discuss."

"Oh?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes. While you were away, I booked an appointment for you to visit Richardson and Associates in Portland," she told him.

"You did what?" Roger stood and threw his newspaper to the desk.

"They called with a number of questions about the recent filings. I thought it best that they speak with you about it, as you are still nominally managing the family businesses."

"Now see here, Liz. You've no right …" he began.

"Save your indignation, Roger. There's more," she said. Roger drew a deep, angry breath, but she continued, "You're taking David with you."

"_David_? What am I to do with him?" Roger's voice rising.

"Your meeting will take an hour or two at most, after which you will spend some time with him, without the rest of us there to smooth the way for you. I've booked a suite for you at the Dorchester. Take him to a museum, to the movies, out for a nice meal, do whatever you like, but spend some time with your son!"

"Really, Liz. You have no right …" he began again.

"I have every right," she cut in. "I have every right because _I've_ been here seeing to _your_ son, while you were off with _her_."

An angry flush suffused his face. "Must you bring Angelique into every conversation?"

"It is you who put her there, Roger—you and your thoughtless behavior. It's time you started making up for it—especially with David," Elizabeth said in a tone that signaled not only that their conversation was at an end, but also that she expected her directives to be obeyed.

* * *

While Elizabeth ensured that the women would have the Great House to themselves that evening, Maggie accompanied Amy to the woods in search of a certain plant that's leaves and roots that were integral to the ritual. On the way, Amy told Maggie that Megan told her that their ancestors had found the needed plant growing wild on the estate. She showed Maggie a thin volume that Megan had loaned her on the use of plants in casting spells, curses, and blessings.

"I still have some things that she loaned me," Amy said. "I guess they're mine now. I don't suppose Philip will want them back."

"No, I don't suppose he will," Maggie replied ruefully. "So, you use these herbs and roots in the ritual?" Maggie asked.

"Oh yes, they're very important."

"You certainly have done your homework on this ritual," Maggie said, trying to sound casual.

"I've spent a lot of time thinking about it—studying it. I neglected my schoolwork. My teacher was upset with me—and so was Carolyn. I haven't played with David, or finished a library book. I put everything aside to plan for this … and … and I know I can do it, Maggie. I know I can."

"You don't have to prove anything to me—or anyone else," Maggie said, as she gently rested her hand on Amy's shoulder. "I don't understand why this is so important to you."

"Because she hurts everyone. She split up Carolyn and Tony, and now he's gone and Carolyn is so unhappy. Now, she has Mr. Collins chasing after her, and Mrs. Stoddard is unhappy. I've heard them arguing. They never used to be like that. Willie is scared of her. And …"

"Go on," Maggie urged when Amy fell silent.

"Nothing—that's it."

"And what about you, Amy? What do you hope to get out of it?" Maggie asked. "She didn't make Chris leave, and banishing him won't bring him back."

_But maybe you and Quentin will come back_, Amy thought, but left it unspoken. Instead she said, "I know that, Maggie." She paused and thought for a moment. "Maybe, I just want to help others. Megan said I have a gift—a once in a generation gift. I should use it to help the people I care about. Maybe that's why it was given to me."

As they walked deeper into the woods, Maggie turned over again and again in her mind the possible ways this undertaking could fail, and the possible consequences if it did. Perhaps up until now, she believed it to be an elaborate game. They all wanted Angelique out of their lives, and planning the ritual provided an outlet for their feelings, but when it came down to it, perhaps they wouldn't go through with it.

"There," Amy exclaimed, pointing to a stand of bushes clustered around the base of a tree. "That's it." She opened the small book she was carrying. "It looks just like the picture."

Maggie followed Amy, who stooped down to get a closer look at the plant. Amy opened the small book to a dog-eared page, and compared the picture to the plant in front of her. "This is it," Amy said over her shoulder.

Maggie squatted beside Amy and handed her a pair of secateurs from the small gardening basket she carried. Amy snipped a few small stalks of the bush. When one proved too tough for her, Maggie took over. They filled the basket. Maggie asked, "What else?"

"I need some of the roots," Amy told her.

Together they uncovered some of the bush's root structure. It was a struggle to free one of the root tendrils, but Maggie persisted, gnawing at it with the secateurs until a piece came off. She added it to the basket. Wrinkling her nose, she asked, "How will you use these?"

"They're very important. The root is for a special tea that will help me focus. The leaves are important too," Amy explained. "Everything is important—every detail. We must get it just right. We each have a role to play—and we must do it right."

"She's formidable, Amy. We shouldn't underestimate her. I know what's she's capable of. I've seen her powers."

"Then I'm glad I haven't, because I don't want to be afraid of her. I want her to be afraid of us. However powerful she is, she's just one person—but there are five of us. So, don't worry, Maggie. You won't be facing her alone. We'll be facing her together."

* * *

Later that afternoon at the Great House, Maggie felt as though the air itself was charged.

Amy gathered the women together in the drawing room. "I have something for you," she said. "Actually, Megan gave them to me—but they're for you." She opened a small drawstring pouch she'd been holding. From it, she drew out a tangle of chains with small pendants. She teased them apart. The first she handed to Elizabeth. "Mrs. Stoddard, this one is for you. The stone is an agate. Megan said it represents the earth element. This one is for you, Dr. Hoffman," she said as she handed one to Julia. "It's called Tiger's Eye, and it represents the air element. And for you, Carolyn, this aquamarine."

Carolyn smiled as she took her pendant from Amy. "I already know," she said in a light tone. "It represents the water element. But aren't we missing the fire element?" Carolyn asked. "I've been studying a little, too," she confessed.

"Mine is the fire element," Amy said, as she pulled a fine silver chain out from underneath the collar of her dress. "It has an amber stone."

Maggie realized she'd been left out. "There are four elements, Amy. It seems to me that you could have done this without bringing me back from San Francisco."

"You're wrong, Maggie. There are _five_ elements—and the fifth is the most important one. It's the spirit element."

"And is there a charm for it?" Maggie asked.

"Yes, there is, and you already have it," Amy told her. "You wear it all the time."

"The pentagram?" Maggie's hand went to her neckline and she pulled the pentagram pendant from beneath her sweater.

"Yes, it's very important. And I'll show you—all of you—where the ceremony will take place, where you'll stand, and what you need to do," Amy said.

When each of the women had put on their respective pendants—Maggie helping Elizabeth with hers—the women adjourned to the east wing to make their final preparations. While each of them took it seriously, a number of times Julia and Maggie made eye contact, and non-verbally shared their concern.

When they were done, Elizabeth alone returned downstairs to the drawing room to await the arrival of their very special guest.

* * *

Elizabeth paced the drawing room, making a small circuit from the bay window, to the fireplace, to the entryway. She tried to steady her nerves and mentally rehearse what she would say to Angelique. She'd been caught up in the idea of banishing Angelique from Collinwood, without actually thinking about what banishment would entail. She had pictured the women banding together to tell Angelique that she was no longer welcome. But then what?

They could hardly expect Angelique to pack her bags, leave Collinwood, and leave behind all she worked to obtain from the Collins men. No—it couldn't be as simple as that. And now that she saw Amy's preparations, to say nothing of the meaningful looks exchanged between Maggie and Julia as Amy explained the ritual, it was clear that there was far more to it. It was clear that Maggie, and even Julia, were in awe of Angelique—perhaps even feared her. A part of her wanted to call the whole thing off. It would be easy to tell the others that she had failed in her critical role. They would be disappointed and let down, but they would all be safe.

Then she thought of Roger and Barnabas, and of Angelique's ongoing presence in their lives and on the estate—_that _was unsupportable. No—they must let that woman know that she was no longer welcome. They must send her away if they could. Her hand went reflexively to the charm on her necklace. They must rely on one another and on the strength of the elements united against the pernicious presence in their midst.

* * *

Maggie stood in the small window alcove looking out as the moonless night descended on the estate. Her mind drifted to a brief time when Quentin persuaded Angelique to help them. Maggie had witnessed first hand the power the sorceress could harness—especially when the moon shone full.

Julia joined her and asked, "Having second thoughts?"

"Are you?" Maggie responded.

Julia drew a deep breath. "We're committed to a course of action now," Julia said fatalistically. "I do worry that we've allowed a _child_ to convince us to act, but that doesn't obviate the need for action."

"Did you discuss it with Professor Stokes?" Maggie asked.

"No, of course not. He would have tried to dissuade us. Worse, he might have given us away by trying to persuade Angelique to leave of her own accord. Why do you ask?"

"He was probing—about why I came back … why I stayed … how long I intend to stay. I can't help but feel that he," Maggie paused, searching for a way to characterize it, "knows or senses something."

"Probably all he senses is that you're not being forthcoming," Julia said flatly.

"He's such a good friend. I hate deceiving him and he would be such a formidable ally," Maggie said in response.

"Yes, he's my friend as well," Julia sniffed, in unspoken irritation about the younger woman's friendship with the professor. She continued in a more measured tone, "But he can't be relied upon when it comes to Angelique." Julia turned away and went to join Amy and Carolyn, as they all waited for Elizabeth to rejoin them.

By now, night had fully fallen, and the women waited in the dark, without even moonlight for meager illumination.

* * *

When the clock in the foyer chimed, Elizabeth was ready to give up hope. But then, a moment later, came a knock at the door. She felt a knot that had taken hold in her belly tighten, but she drew back her shoulders, put on her Collins matriarch mien, and went to the door.

"So, you're finally here," Elizabeth said by way of greeting, as she opened the door, tacitly inviting the blond woman to enter.

"I'm not accustomed to being summoned like a common servant," Angelique said, as she deposited her handbag on the table in the foyer, and then drew off her gloves and coat, leaving them on the table as well. "I come and go as I please." She swept past Elizabeth into the drawing room. Elizabeth followed her in. "So, what is it you want, Elizabeth?" Angelique asked, as she made herself comfortable on the davenport.

"We may as well be civil. May I offer you a sherry?" Elizabeth asked, already pouring them. She was feeling the need of some Dutch courage. She handed a small-stemmed glass to her "guest."

"So—again—to what do I owe the honor of this invitation?" Angelique's dimpled smile belied both her tone and the look in her eyes.

Elizabeth did not sit. Instead she stood in front of the fireplace and came to the point. "I wanted to speak to you alone—woman to woman. I want you to stop your pursuit of my brother—at once. You are committed to marry Barnabas, and it's time that you behaved so. Collinsport is rife with gossip and rumors about your behavior—and I won't have it."

"_You_ won't have it!" Angelique spat back. "Roger enjoys my company and I enjoy his."

"And what about Barnabas?" Elizabeth asked.

"What about him? If he doesn't mind my friendship with Roger, why should you?"

"I want you to leave Collinwood," Elizabeth said. "I want you to leave at once—leave my family alone. I'm prepared to make it worth your while." She went to the small writing table, opened the drawer, and took out her checkbook and a pen.

The veneer of civility forgotten, Angelique got to her feet. Her laugh reverberated through the drawing room. Her blond hair gleamed in the dim light. "Do you think that you can buy me off? You're a typical Collins—you think money and influence will solve every problem. Well, you're not the first Collins to underestimate me. Your money doesn't interest me. No, I have my sights set higher than that." Angelique fumed. "I came here to be the mistress of the Old House, but now I find that marrying _Roger_ suits me better. And when I become the mistress of the _Great House_, there will be no place for you here, unless you learn to tread carefully."

"_Never_."

"Do you think Roger can resist me?" Angelique taunted. "He's already in love with me. All I need to do is show him that I reciprocate his feelings, and he'll be mine."

"Very well. If you think you want to be the mistress of Collinwood, there is something you should see first."

For all of Angelique's bravado, Elizabeth believed she could see a hint of fear mingled with curiosity in her rival's eyes. "There's nothing you can show me that will make me change my mind," Angelique said.

"Be that as it may, there is something that you must see—something known only to the mistress of Collinwood. Neither Roger nor Barnabas has knowledge of what I am about to show you," Elizabeth offered tantalizingly.

"Very well," Angelique said at last.

* * *

Elizabeth led Angelique upstairs and down the dimly lit corridor that led to the east wing. A smattering of old wall sconces containing low wattage bulbs illuminated the hallway that led to their ultimate destination. Elizabeth was grateful for having visited the room a short time earlier; otherwise, it would have been challenging to find her way in the near darkness.

Angelique followed a few steps behind, observing the slip-covered furnishings along the way. When she could see nothing of interest in their line of sight, she asked in frustration, "Where are you taking me, Elizabeth? What is it you want to show me?"

Elizabeth didn't respond, but instead hastened her step to the double doors at the end of the corridor. "Here," she said, loudly enough to alert the others awaiting their arrival. She hoped they were ready to put their plan into action. "In here. What I want to show you is in here." Elizabeth stood for a moment, her hands poised to open the doors.

"We won't be able to see anything in this darkness," Angelique said, taking another step toward the doors.

Elizabeth opened the doors. "There are candles on the mantelpiece," she said, hoping everything was ready for what was to come. "Come in."

While Elizabeth made her way to the mantle in small, careful steps, Angelique followed her, taking a few hesitant steps into the dark, seemingly empty room. "It's so cold," Angelique trilled.

"This wing has been long abandoned," Elizabeth responded, reaching for the candle and matches.

"No," the witch said. "Not that kind of cold. This is … something else … something _different_."

"Then all is ready," Elizabeth said, striking the match and lighting the candle.


	12. Chapter 12

The new moon, dark and deceptive, has come to the great estate of Collinwood. Under its dark sky, one girl's plans come to fruition. Amy Jennings has learned of her prodigious talents, passed from one generation to the next, and has yearned to use them to help the ones she loves. On this dark night, she has led the women of Collinwood in a quest to banish Angelique Bouchard. While their desire to rid the estate of the interloper runs deep, their confidence remains to be tested—as does the skill and resolve of the child who leads them.

* * *

All at once, candles sprang to life, illuminating the room. In the candlelight, Angelique could see the room at last. More furniture covered by slipcovers, an ornate mantelpiece, and the other women. Now she noticed that the bone-chilling cold she felt was the pentagram painted on the wood floor, no doubt intended to contain her. She laughed, and her laughter rang through the empty room, echoing through the emptiness, touching every wall and reaching each of the assembled women. "Amateurs! Do you think this pentagram will hold me?"

"Earth."

"Air."

"Fire."

"Water."

Each of the women intoned, in turn. Each stood at one of the points of the pentagram, holding a white candle.

"But there are _five_ elements," Angelique taunted. "And _five_ points of the pentagram."

Then Maggie stepped out from the shelter of the window alcove and lit her white candle. She took her place on the remaining point of the pentagram. "Spirit. The pentagram is complete."

"Yes, you have bound me, but you too are bound. Know this, your pentagram will not hold me indefinitely, and when I am free, I will destroy you—all of you," Angelique said, addressing Maggie.

But it was Amy who spoke. "Angelique Bouchard, we banish you from this place. I call upon the spirit of my ancestors. Aid me! Magda, the powerful; Julianca, wise and pure; Jenny, the brave; and Megan, who has gone to join you, my teacher and my strength. Aid me!"

A chill blast of air emanated from the center of the pentagram, touching every point.

* * *

"Hoffman, what are you doing? I called for forceps. I need it _now_."

"I … I …" Julia stammered. She looked at her gloved hands. The forceps she was holding clattered to the floor. "What am I doing here?" she murmured.

"I wonder the same thing. Step out, Hoffman. Smith, take over," the man's voice said—the _doctor's_ voice.

"I shouldn't be assisting," Julia said, as Smith pushed her away from the tray of sterile instruments.

"We agree on that at least," the doctor boomed.

"I don't belong here. I'm a doctor—a _psychiatrist_. I'm _Doctor_ Julia Hoffman—an eminent psychiatrist."

"More like you're in need of one," the doctor responded, drawing snickers of laughter from those assisting. "Scrub out, Hoffman. You? An eminent psychiatrist? Why you're barely capable of performing your nursing duties on this service. Your incompetence could cost this patient his life! I said scrub out—and get out of this operating theater at once," the doctor, now red-faced behind his surgical mask, bellowed.

Julia felt as though the walls were closing in. She backed out of the door into the antechamber, cold sweat dotting her forehead.

* * *

"Thank you for giving me away, Uncle Roger. I wish my father were here to do it. I mean, I know what you think of him, but it's the one time a girl wishes for her father—no matter the mistakes he's made."

"It's my pleasure, Kitten," Roger said. "And while I may disagree about your father, I understand the sentiment." Turning the conversation he said, "You look beautiful, Carolyn."

Carolyn took in her image in the full-length mirror. She had opted for a white mini-dress, with long bell-sleeves. "Thank you, Uncle Roger," Carolyn said, addressing his reflection in the mirror. "I hope Jeb likes it."

"Well, he's a fool if he doesn't." Roger's tone became more serious. "Kitten, are you sure about him?"

"What do you mean?" Carolyn asked, turning to face her uncle. "What have you heard about him?"

"Nothing—it's nothing like that. Well, it's just …" Roger hesitated, searching for the right words.

"Go on," Carolyn spat angrily. "It's just what? That I've only known him a short time, that he dresses, acts, and sounds different—like he's not from around here. That's _why_ I love him. Or is it just what everyone thinks about _me_—that I can't hold on to a man—that there's something wrong with me—that no one will ever love me." Carolyn sniffed back tears, fearing their deleterious effect on her make-up.

Roger put his hands on her shoulders. "Nobody who knows you would believe that, Carolyn," he said to comfort her.

"First, Chris, then Tony, even Joe preferred Maggie to me. Now, at last, I've found somebody who loves me—and even though I haven't known him long, it's like we've known each other our entire lives."

He offered her his handkerchief; she took it and blotted her eyes. "I'm sorry, Carolyn. I didn't mean to upset you."

Just then there was a knock at the door. Roger opened it to find Mrs. Johnson waiting anxiously.

"Are they ready for us?" Roger asked.

"This note came for Carolyn," Mrs. Johnson said, drawing an envelope out of the pocket of her cardigan.

Carolyn brushed past Roger and met Mrs. Johnson's eyes. The older woman handed Carolyn the envelope then turned away to afford her some privacy.

Carolyn opened the envelope and read the short letter within. "He's not coming," she said to Roger.

"Who? Who's not coming?"

"Jeb." Carolyn's face was ashen, but stoic. "He says he never loved me. He couldn't go through with it, because he never loved me and he wants to be free."

* * *

Elizabeth woke and found herself in profound darkness. Not a single ray of light reached her room. She had slept heavily. She couldn't remember changing her clothes and climbing into bed the night before. But here she was, waking up from a deep, satisfying sleep.

She knew she could languish in bed a while longer, but with her need for sleep sated, her thoughts turned to coffee. She tried to turn to the right and found she could not. Then, she tried to turn to her left. Another wall blocked her.

_No!_ Her mind screamed out. _No!_

With her eyes wide open, she was still in total darkness. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest. She freed them, only to find her movements constricted. There were walls all around—and above her.

Now, she explored the walls gently with her fingers. They were padded—covered with tufted satin.

"No!" she cried aloud. She pushed on what she now realized was the lid of a coffin. It didn't give—not even a little.

Now, her pushing became frantic. "Please, somebody! Please help me! I'm alive!"

She had begged Roger to install precautions to avoid this very situation. He saw no need. What's more, he suggested she speak with Julia about her irrational fear of being buried alive. _If only he'd listened to me._

She banged relentlessly on the coffin's lid. "Roger! Carolyn! Anybody! Can anybody hear me? Please, somebody help me." Her voice dissolved into a whimper.

Then she felt motion—movement. The coffin was moving. It tipped slowly back and forth, and she experienced the sensation of moving lower and lower. She realized at once that it corresponded to a movement she'd watch many times. The gravediggers were lowering the coffin into the ground.

Elizabeth put every bit of her remaining energy into banging on the lid and calling out, "Help me!" But no one responded. _Why can't they hear me? _She thought as she dissolved into tears.

The rocking motion stopped with a gentle thud. She had begged to be interred in the family mausoleum—and this was why. How could Roger and Carolyn have ignored her final wishes?

A few moments passed. Then she heard it—the sound of the first of many shovels of dirt burying the coffin.

* * *

Late afternoon was waning outside. Soon the estate would be dark; soon the sun would set and night would dawn.

Maggie arranged a curl that fell over her shoulder. She brushed it around her hand then twisted it between her fingers until it held its shape. She looked in the mirror. It was a strange, old-fashioned hairdo—not at all like her.

Her clothes, too, were old-fashioned—a flowing white, empire-waist dress and delicate flat slippers that looked like ballet shoes. The dress was adorned with a violet ribbon and she wore a matching one in her hair. It was like playing dress up when she was a girl, or perhaps preparing for a costume party.

Her hand gently touched her temple, as she tried to remember why. Why was she dressing up this way? She stood and moved from the vanity to the mantle of the fireplace. There was an ornate music-box playing a tune over and over. The music began to slow. Maggie reached for the music-box. Her fingers touched the key. She had every intention of winding it again, but then as the music stopped, she suddenly felt displaced.

_Why am I dressed like this?_ She spun around on her heel. _No._ She was at the Old House—in _Josette's_ room.

She tried the door and found it locked. She banged on it. "Willie? Willie, are you there?" No answer. She banged again—furiously this time. "Willie, if you're there, please help me," she cried. She pulled at the door. It shook in its frame, but showed no signs of opening. Frustration set in. Moments passed. She felt helpless—a feeling she hated, and never wanted to feel again.

At last, she heard footsteps advancing down the hall toward her. "Willie, is that you?" She took a step back away from the door when she heard the key turn in the lock. The door opened.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, _Josette_," Barnabas told her, as he pushed the door shut behind him. "Willie is in town this evening. It's just you and me."

Maggie shook her head. "I am not Josette."

"But you _are_," Barnabas said. "You've only forgotten—forgotten who you _really_ are. Where is your music-box, Josette? Why is it not playing?" His eyes cast about the room until they found the music-box on the mantle. "Go and get it. Wind it and you will remember who you are."

Maggie's mind raced, as she went to the mantle to retrieve the music-box. She turned back to face Barnabas with the box in her hands. She fumbled with the key delaying as long as she could. She took a few halting steps toward him. Then all at once, she flung the box to the floor and charged past him toward the door.

He caught her arm and held her fast. His expression showed his shock and sense of betrayal. "I had hoped you would come to me willingly," he said in a tone choked with emotion. Then with cool calculation, he added, "But it is clear that you will not. But you will be mine—you will be my _Josette_." In that moment, Maggie found that she could not look away from him, try as she might.

"Please," she whispered, knowing it was too late. Already her will and resolve were beginning to ebb. She felt the sharp prick of his fangs piercing her skin, then sinking deep into her neck. A small rivulet of blood snaked down to her chest, staining her white dress.

* * *

Amy alighted the stairs that led to the foyer of the Great House and found Carolyn waiting.

"Carolyn, Mrs. Johnson said you wanted to see me. Is everything all right? I hope I haven't done anything wrong," Amy said.

"No, Amy. It's nothing like that. I have a surprise for you, in the drawing room," Carolyn returned with a measured smile. She led the girl to the drawing room and opened the doors.

Amy's eyes went wide. "Chris! It's you!" She ran into the room and into her brother's welcoming embrace.

"Hey, kiddo. Did you miss me?"

"Oh, Chris. You know I did. When Carolyn said she had a surprise for me, I didn't want to hope it was you, because I've been disappointed before. But now you're here—you're really here." Amy felt as though she was bursting from joy.

"Yes, Amy. I'm here—I'm really here," Chris told her, before pulling her into another hug.

Amy looked at him, smiling with abandon. "Tell me everything. Where did you go? What did you do?" she asked in rapid succession.

"Hold on. I know you're excited, but there's someone I'd like to introduce," Chris said, taking a step back and holding out his arm.

"Amy, this is Sabrina Stu … Jennings, my wife. Sabrina, this is my little sister, Amy."

When Sabrina stood, Amy realized that Sabrina had been sitting on the davenport all that time, and she'd been so excited to see Chris that she hadn't noticed her. "Pleased to meet you," Amy said.

"I'm pleased to meet you too," Sabrina said stiffly. "Chris has told me so much about you." Though inside the house, her handbag still hung from her arm, and she still wore a matching green cloche and boucle jacket.

"When did you get married?" Amy asked Chris.

"Just about a week ago," he responded.

"Where? How long have you known each other?" Amy was bursting with questions.

Chris tried to answer them. "We were married in New York. That's where we met, and that's where we live."

"New York! I've always wanted to go there," Amy enthused.

"Then you must come and visit us sometime," Sabrina said coolly.

Amy was crestfallen. "Visit?"

"Why, yes, of course." It was Sabrina who spoke, while Chris looked at her with a love-struck smile on his face.

Amy looked at Chris. "But, I thought you came to get me—to take me home with you. It's all I wanted, all I've dreamed about since you left."

"Don't be silly, Amy. I can't take you home with me," Chris said.

"Why not?" Amy said, tears threatening to flow.

"Because we don't have room for you in our lives," Sabrina said sharply. "We're just starting out. What would I do with a child your age? Besides, we plan to have children of our own someday. We don't need you."

Chris looked adoringly at his wife.

"She wants to come home with us, Chris," Sabrina said mockingly. "Isn't that funny?"

Chris chuckled. "It is. You're right."

"_Please_, Chris," Amy pleaded. "I've been waiting all of this time for you to come back to me."

Then Sabrina threw back her head and laughed. It was a cruel, bitter laugh. Peels of laughter rang through the drawing room.

Amy covered her ears to block out the mocking laughter. She felt nearly paralyzed by the pain of Chris's fresh abandonment. No one ever wanted her. Everyone always left—always left her behind—left her alone.

Then Amy let her tears flow. Tears of sadness mixed with tears of bitterness. Then tears of anger joined. She felt childish, but she didn't care. She furiously wiped the tears away as quickly as they came. Before long, her tears were spent. Her face felt damp and salty, yet refreshed. It was as though fully indulging her tears—_her emotions_—recalled her to herself and her purpose.

She knew what she had to do. She summoned all of her will to do it. She must—for all of their sakes—she _must_. She lowered one hand, calling on her body to obey her commands. She shoved her hand into the pocket of her skirt. Her body movements were sluggish. She felt as though the air itself had become heavy and restrained her. She found a small clipping—just a few leaves. She clutched at them with recalcitrant fingers. She drew them out. All that remained to do was to ignite them. She lit the clipping with her candle. It was slow to catch fire, but then suddenly it ignited. The flame sparked high into the air, illuminating the room. Amy let go of the clipping for fear of being burned when the flame reached her fingers. But the flame consumed the clipping in its entirety before it hit the floor. Suddenly the room was filled with smoke and the scent of the burning herb.

Sabrina's laughing face, illuminated by candlelight, became Angelique's, and she stood mocking them, still trapped in the pentagram. Amy saw at each point, the faces of the other women, staring blank-eyed, lost in illusions of their own devising.

_Before undertaking the ceremony, drink a strong tea brewed with the root of the plant. The leaves, too, when burned will aid with focus and recall participants to their task …_

Amy resumed her incantation. "I call upon the spirit of my ancestors. Aid me! Magda, the powerful; Julianca, wise and pure; Jenny, the brave; and Megan, who has gone to join you, my teacher and my strength. Aid me! Angelique Bouchard, we banish you from this place." Then she continued, "I call upon the elements—Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Spirit." She raised her voice and willed it to sound powerful.

Maggie was the first to respond to the call of the herb, and come back into her self. Her eyes were filled with terror and panic. In a moment, she realized where she was and what she was about. Though at the moment she had nothing to fear from Barnabas, she was far from safe. She joined Amy's incantation of "Angelique Bouchard, we banish you from this place."

Carolyn returned next. A few tears trickled down her face. She blinked back any more that threatened. The man who jilted her was nothing more than a figment—an illusion. But the woman—the creature—that caused her real pain was there before her—_laughing_. Carolyn, too, took up the incantation. "Angelique Bouchard, we banish you from this place."

Elizabeth returned next, gasping for air—her chest heaving with the effort. Finally, Julia rejoined them, with little more than a look of indignation, borne of outraged pride. The two joined the incantation. "Angelique Bouchard, we banish you from this place."

Then Amy retrieved a few more leaves of the herb in her pocket. She crumbled some onto her flame. The flame again sprang to life, rising high into the air, burning in a succession of colors, from the coolest blue to white hot. "Angelique Bouchard, we banish you from this place," the others intoned in unison. But Amy's voice became a descant to their chorus. "Angelique Bouchard, we send you back to the darkness from which you came. Let this flame summon others, and let the flames usher you back. Torment us no more. I call upon the flames to usher you back—back into the darkness from which you came."

All at once, Angelique's laughter stopped. She spun around, from one point of the pentagram to the next, to the next. "_No!_" she cried out suddenly. "No! The flames! Put them out, put them out!"

* * *

Quentin jogged into the east wing. "This way," he called to Professor Stokes. The older man followed as quickly as he could, guided by the sound of women's voices, until the two reached the doorway and saw the women within.

"What's wrong with her?" Quentin blurted out upon seeing the scene within. "What are they doing to her? They've trapped her. I have to …" When he moved to enter the room, Professor Stokes stayed him with a firm grip on his arm.

"No, Quentin! It is, as I feared. We are too late. The ritual is well underway."

"What do you mean we're too late? We can stop it—now!"

"_No, Quentin!_" was Professor Stokes's emphatic response. "If we stop the ritual now and free Angelique, her retribution will be terrible to behold. We both know what she's capable of. We must let it run its course—whatever the outcome."

* * *

Flames! The flames were all around her. It was her one true fear. It was any witch's greatest fear—fire. Being burned at the stake had long been the punishment for her kind—those, innocent or not, accused of witchcraft. And now, she found herself helpless and surrounded by flames.

* * *

Now all of the candle flames flared to match Amy's and the smoke they generated swirled inside the pentagram like a vortex, trapping their quarry. The smoke spun itself tightly around Angelique; her futile pleas emanated from within. Then the funnel of smoke floated up until it broke on the ceiling like a wave breaking on the shore. It dissipated. And when it did, Angelique was gone.

* * *

"Maggie. _Maggie!_"

Maggie's eyes blinked open. "Quentin? What are you …" She tried to move, but she felt leaden and her body rebelled. She found her husband cradling her in his arms. "What happened?" she asked weakly. Before Quentin could respond, she tried to get up in a panic, "Amy? Is she all right?"

"She's fine. Professor Stokes and Julia are seeing to her," Quentin told her.

"Carolyn? Elizabeth?"

"Everyone is fine. They came to more quickly, but you and Amy …" Quentin's voice trailed off.

Now Maggie relaxed back into his embrace. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I took a late flight last night. Stokes called me. He was concerned, but we arrived too late."

Quentin stroked Maggie's head, and gently pulled an errant lock of her hair to the side. She looked up at him. Though his touch was gentle, Maggie could see that the look in his eyes was anything but. She struggled, but finally sat upright beside him.

"What the hell did you think you were doing, Maggie?" Quentin asked in a low, angry voice.

"We did what no one else was willing to do. We did what needed to be done to protect Collinwood." Maggie pushed back fiercely.

Quentin cast his eyes around the room at the still woozy Carolyn and Elizabeth, and to where Julia and Eliot sat with Amy. "You should never have involved Amy. The rest of you are adults, however foolhardy, but Amy is a child."

"It was _my_ idea," Amy said in a small voice from across the room. "I found the ritual in a book that Megan gave me—and _I_ prepared for it." Her voice gained strength. "_I_ convinced the others to join me. And Maggie is right. We did it because it needed to be done."

"Yes, but what happens now? Banishment does not mean she's gone forever. Do you know where you sent her? How long she'll be gone? Angelique is a dangerous adversary," Quentin said. "Professor, anything you'd like to add? You were concerned enough to call and ask me to come back." Quentin appealed to the older academic for support.

Professor Stokes, who had lowered himself to one knee beside Julia and Amy, stood slowly with deliberateness necessitated by aging, arthritic knees. He ambled slowly to the mantle and rested one arm along its length. "I fear I contacted you too late for meaningful intervention. I surmised that they were preparing some action, but I thought we had more time. I didn't foresee that they would employ the _new_ moon in their service."

"That was Maggie's idea," Amy said proudly.

The professor offered Maggie an impressed, appraising look, but went on, as though Amy hadn't spoken. "I fear that I failed you—all of you. I should have seen the frustration she engendered but I, too, had fallen under her spell."

"It isn't your fault, Professor—nor is it ours," Maggie added pointedly to her husband. "She brought it on herself."

"And what happens when she returns? And she _will_ return," Quentin said. "She always does."

It was Amy who answered. "Then she'll find Collinwood is protected against her. She is no longer welcome here."

"And who is going to stop her? _You_?" Quentin asked. His tone was sharp, almost mocking. "I know that you descend from a long line of strong women, but Angelique is a powerful sorceress and not to be trifled with."

"I know you think I'm only a child, but I have a gift. And yes, I descend from strong women, but the gift—_my_ gift—is the culmination of all that came before me. And I will use it to protect the people I love."

* * *

"Put them out!" Angelique cried aloud. "Please," she pleaded. "Put them out!" It seemed to her an eternity elapsed, surrounded by flames that crept ever closer. She could feel their heat. There was no escape.

Then it happened. Her pleas were answered, as the flames gradually began to burn themselves out. First they diminished in size and ferocity. Only then could she catch her breath. She turned in one direction, then the next. All at once the flames went out completely.

Her panic over, she looked around. The others were gone; she was alone.

"Show yourselves," she called out. "Face me! Show yourselves!"

There was no answer. The room was preternaturally quiet. The pentagram that had bound her was gone. She took a few tentative steps to the doorway and peered through the open doors. It was the same room—yet different. Turning back to the room, she could see that the room was furnished now. A lovely chaise lounge stood next to the table and a piano occupied a corner of the room that moments before had been vacant. The furnishings were lush and feminine. They were what she would have chosen, had she ever been allowed to settle somewhere and call it her home.

She turned to the mantle. A large canvas, covered by a heavy black satin drape, now occupied the space above the fireplace. She approached it. Her fingers grasped the edge of the cloth then hesitated. A chill ran through her. The cloth was not to provide protection for the painting underneath. Though she had no fear of mourning shrouds, this one gave her pause.

_I am Angelique Bouchard_, she exhorted herself. She grasped the shroud fully and firmly pulled it off, to reveal a portrait—of _her_—but not her. Yes, the woman in the portrait had her face—had her eyes. But Angelique had never sat for the painting. And the clothes and jewelry—elegant and of this era—she had never had such things. Never in any of the times in which she had lived had she been honored with such a portrait over the mantle.

"Where am I? Where have they sent me?" she asked aloud, her eyes wide—almost wild. No one answered. "Where am I?" she called out again. Again, there was no answer.

She ventured out of the room, made her way down the hallway, back to the main wing of the Great House, calling out as she went. "Is anyone here? Show yourselves." But she received no answer; there was no sign of anyone else. She moved to the landing of the main staircase. "Hello. Is anyone here? Answer me!" she insisted, her voice reverberating off of the walls. There was no response. It was silent. She alighted the stairs and threw open the drawing room doors. There was no fire lit, chill air filled the silent room, and met her at the doorway. "Hello?" she called out. _Where is everyone? _"Is anyone here?" she asked, her voice fading weakly into a near whisper.

Angelique found herself, at last, the mistress of Collinwood, but completely alone on the estate that she always coveted.


	13. Epilogue

Calm descends on the Great Estate of Collinwood. Only those present on the night of the banishment ritual know what has taken place. Only they know that Angelique Bouchard will not return—at least, not in the foreseeable future. As each day passes without her presence, her absence provides liberation for some, and becomes a vexing mystery to others.

* * *

The morning following the ritual, Maggie rose early, dressed and slipped out of the Great House. She knew from her recent experience that Quentin's body would still feel like he was on Pacific time and thus he would sleep a while longer. They had stayed up well into the wee hours mostly talking, but then they had made up for lost time. It was strange to Maggie to be with Quentin there in the governess's room. Afterward, he had fallen into a sound sleep, but Maggie dozed, woke early and, waited for the sun to rise.

As soon as the sun's first rays shone at the horizon, she was up. A short time later, she entered the cottage that Angelique had occupied during her most recent stay at Collinwood. Although the cottage looked like someone was staying there, it did not look like someone _lived_ there. There were no personal touches. For a moment, Maggie wondered about Angelique—the woman. But she had not come for that. She came with a very specific intent. She began searching the small cottage, room by room.

There were few places to look in the sitting room, but she opened the drawers of the small desk. Nothing. She knew it was unlikely that Angelique would have hidden it there—there where Barnabas or Willie, acting on Barnabas's behalf, could easily find it—Josette's music-box. Still, she had to be sure.

Looking around the cottage, she realized at once that it looked like Angelique had just stepped out—not like she had left Collinwood permanently—or of her own volition. Her clothes still hung in the closet. A paperback novel on the nightstand still had a bookmark to indicate she was in the midst of reading. Her cosmetics and hair styling tools still covered the small vanity. Maggie and the others would have to return later that morning, and remedy it. But in the meantime, she continued her search.

Maggie was just preparing to search the closet, when she heard the door of the cottage creak open, followed by a few halting footsteps. She stood absolutely still; she realized she was holding her breath. Quentin's words came unbidden to mind—what if Angelique had returned?

Then she heard a familiar sigh, and went to meet it. "Carolyn? What are you doing here?"

Carolyn's body jerked involuntarily at the sound of Maggie's voice. "Maggie! You startled me."

"I'm sorry. You gave me a bit of a scare too. What are you doing here?"

Carolyn twisted her lips into an expression that was part smile, part grimace. "I guess I had to be sure. I had to see for myself that she was gone—really gone."

Maggie smiled faintly. "What would you have done if she was here?" she asked.

"I don't know. I'm just …"

"What, Carolyn?"

"We did it. We sent her away. I've never experienced anything like it in my life. I've never felt so powerful. For too long, I felt powerless before her. I watched her destroy what I had with Tony, then move on to Uncle Roger—and heaven help me, Maggie, I _hated_ her. People say you should never say you hate someone. But I did—I _hated_ her."

"I think you're being too hard on yourself, Carolyn. She's not like us. She never will be. We did what was necessary to protect Collinwood and the people we love. There's nothing wrong with that. And now that she's gone, who knows, maybe you and Tony can start fresh."

"I don't even know if that's what I want," Carolyn said sadly.

"And you won't know, until you see him again. Call him, Carolyn."

"We can't all be blissfully happy, like you and Quentin," Carolyn returned.

Maggie grew thoughtful. "He's not very happy about the ritual and my role in it. He seems to think it was possible to coexist with Angelique. I disagree. But at least I know that we'll work through it—together."

"So, what are you doing here?" Carolyn asked.

Maggie let the question hang in the air for a moment then dissembled, "The same as you."

* * *

Roger and David returned from their trip, to learn that Angelique had packed her things and left Collinwood. In point of fact, the women who had banished her from the estate had emptied the cottage of her possessions, carefully packed them, and stored them in an unused cupboard in the east wing, where there was little chance of discovery. Roger followed his sister to the library and confronted her.

"She wouldn't just leave without so much as a note of explanation," Roger insisted.

"Well, she has," Elizabeth responded.

"Did you say something to cause her to leave, Liz?" Roger persisted.

"Very well, Roger. What if I did? What if I pointed out to her the impropriety of her behavior? After all, she's _Barnabas's_ fiancé, but you're behaving as though it was you to whom she was engaged," Elizabeth retorted.

"You haven't answered my question," Roger continued imperiously. "Did you or did you not say or do something to induce her to leave?"

Elizabeth again sidestepped his question. "For your sake, I'm sorry she did not elucidate the reason for her departure, but frankly, we're well rid of her—and I won't say otherwise. There was nothing I could say or offer her that would induce her to leave. But did I try? Yes, I did. After all, she's done nothing but divide this family—and lest you forget, before her seeming interest in you, she was interested in Tony. In fact, she is interested in any male, but Barnabas." Elizabeth exhaled an angry breath. Her pent up frustration with her younger brother's misplaced infatuation was spent.

Roger looked pale in the face of her barrage. "Perhaps, you're right, Liz," he conceded at last. He retired to the study and tried to accept the news at face value, but his disappointment and disillusionment silently persisted for weeks.

* * *

After the women moved Angelique's possessions to the east wing, Maggie went in search of her husband. She had genuinely missed him during the time that she had been at Collinwood and he remained in San Francisco. But now, as she looked for him, she felt some unnamed anxiety nesting in her chest. Quentin had been, by turns, angry that she had not told him about their plans to conduct the ritual, and grateful that she and the others were safe. And she didn't blame him—not really. If their roles were reversed, she'd probably feel the same. Still, she hated the distance between them. When she found him, she would tell him so.

She checked the family dining room, and finding that he was not there, headed to the drawing room. The drawing room doors were ajar, so she peeked in. Elizabeth sat on the davenport, sipping a cup of tea. When she saw Maggie in the doorway, she invited her in, saying, "Please come in, Maggie."

"I didn't mean to interrupt you," Maggie demurred.

"Actually, I was just thinking about you."

"Oh?" Maggie said taking a few steps into the drawing room.

"Yes. With everything that's been going on, I don't think I've told you how nice it is been having you back. And now, with Quentin here, well, I've missed you both. I hope you don't have to rush back to San Francisco."

"I'll tell Quentin that when I see him," Maggie said. "I was just looking for him. Have you seen him?"

"Yes. He was going out for a walk around the estate. I think he misses Collinwood as much as we've missed having him here."

* * *

Maggie took her fisherman's sweater from a peg by the front door of the Great House. She hesitated then reached for her suede tote bag that was hanging on an adjacent peg. She headed out, but rather than going at once to look for Quentin, she made her way to the old farm on the edge of the estate that was once their home.

She let herself in and looked around nostalgically. Things were much as they'd left them—slipcovers draped over furniture, boxes stacked in corners and along the walls, labeled with their contents. She went to the latter and began moving them one at a time, until she found the one that held some of her arts and crafts supplies. She opened it and rifled through it. Then she found her old toolbox. It was still in the utility cupboard off of the kitchen, right where they'd left it in their hasty departure from Collinwood. Once she had the tools and supplies she needed. She locked the house, and bade it farewell.

She took a leisurely pace traversing the woods, heading toward the bluffs. It was by then early afternoon and the woods were inviting. While she loved San Francisco and all it offered, she missed the woods and the bluffs that provided the inspiration for so much of her father's artwork.

She followed the path through the woods, and where it met the path that skirted the bluffs, she turned and took it back toward the estate. She and Quentin had walked along this path together many times when they were first getting to know one another. So she wasn't surprised to see him silhouetted in the distance, looking out at the restless sea. He wore corduroy slacks and a rather conservative tweed jacket. Perhaps because he was back home at Collinwood, where his life had spanned the centuries, he backed off of his more relaxed San Francisco look. But his hair, longer now than in the past, danced in the stiff ocean breeze.

She followed the path as it turned toward the woods for a short distance, before emerging again only steps from the bluff where Quentin stood, seemingly in quiet contemplation. He turned slightly when he heard her approaching footsteps. Seeing it was Maggie, he extended his arm toward her. She went to him and slipped her arm around his waist underneath his jacket. He pulled her close and held her tightly. They stood in silence for some time.

When at last he spoke, he began, "You should have told me."

"Quentin …"

"Wait. Hear me out. You should have told me about the ritual, but I was wrong last night—what I said about Amy. I was wrong. She does descend from a long line of strong women—_gifted_ women. And Amy may be the most gifted of any of them. More importantly, she is my descendant. She and Chris are my family—and it's time I reunited my family—here at Collinwood."

"What are you saying, Quentin?"

"That it's time to come home."

"Are you sure, Quentin? I know how much you love our life in San Francisco."

"I do love it there—I love being just us, without the burden of being a Collins. But Amy needs us and she's family—she's _my family_—my descendant, though I can hardly explain that to her."

"I don't know about that," Maggie said. "I think you'd be surprised how much she understands."

Quentin smiled faintly, but then struck a serious note. "And I'm going to find Chris and bring him home too. I know better than anyone what he's going through, but it's time for him to come home and face the people he left behind. At least, that's my plan, if you agree."

* * *

Barnabas knew at once that something had changed on the estate. The evening following the ritual, he rose to find Julia waiting for him instead of Willie. In the days following Megan's death, he had taken to seeking solace in Collinsport with whomever he could. A new, profound sense of dissipation had set in. He knew—_feared_—where it would lead. So, finding Julia upon rising kindled hope.

Julia told him that Angelique had been banished from Collinwood, but demurred as to the specifics, no matter the questions he raised.

"But how?" he had asked.

"Does it matter?" she deflected.

"How do you know that she won't return?" he persisted.

Julia sighed. "There are no guarantees." She added only that she was now free to complete her work at the Old House, and that she was optimistic that a cure was not only possible, but close at hand.

"Thank you, Julia," Barnabas said, as they emerged from the basement into the small Old House foyer.

"Oh, and one other bit of news. Quentin has returned to Collinwood," Julia said as though it just occurred to her, rather than being a card she'd waited to play.

"Oh?"

"Yes. It seems he missed Maggie. So, he flew in and surprised her."

"I see. I will have to stop by and pay my respects. Perhaps tomorrow—I'm sure my presence would be unwelcome on their first evening together," Barnabas said sadly.

"Barnabas, we haven't talked about Megan," Julia began.

"I went too far, but you already know that," he said. "And I assume that since she doesn't walk the night, as I do, that you dealt with her."

"Yes, I did." The words caught in Julia's suddenly dry throat.

"Thank you, Julia."

"_That_, I did for Megan, and in a way, for Philip," she said pointedly.

"Nevertheless," Barnabas said, "I am grateful." He reached for his caped coat.

"Where are you going?" Julia asked.

"To town. Perhaps to the Blue Whale for a drink and some companionship," Barnabas replied.

"Must you, Barnabas?" Julia asked in a now familiar tone that conveyed both disgust and pity.

"Until there is a cure, Julia, you know I must," he told her then went out into the night.

* * *

With the ritual successfully completed, and the decision to return to Collinwood to stay, Maggie found herself feeling increasingly unsettled. She knew that she had unfinished business, and that she could not rest—could not _settle_ at Collinwood—until the deed was done.

That night, Quentin slept soundly, aided by a snifter of brandy and the sound of the sea. But Maggie had lain awake most of the night, thinking about dawn and the task ahead.

When at last the governess's room was witness to the subtle shift from darkness to first light, she gently freed herself from Quentin's embrace, dressed in jeans and sneakers, grabbed her tote, and headed downstairs.

* * *

In the months since they left Collinwood, Quentin and Maggie had slept in a wide range of accommodations. They had slept at funky motels that were the nearest at hand after a long day's drive. They had slept at the occasional upscale hotel as a splurge. They had stayed for several weeks in the Dudoit's guest cottage behind their home in New Orleans, and finally in their tiny upstairs bedroom above the shop in San Francisco. Through it all, Quentin had developed an innate sense of his wife—how she moved and breathed when she slept, and her subtle fidgets, no matter how she tried to suppress them, when she was awake.

He said nothing as she slipped out from under the arm he'd draped over her. But his senses brought him fully to consciousness when he heard the bedroom door close as quietly as Maggie could manage it. He rose at once, determined to follow her.

Perhaps he should have respected her privacy—her _solitude_—but something told him that Maggie was troubled. She had not been herself since the ritual. She hadn't told him as much, but she didn't have to. He could see it on her face when she thought he wasn't looking.

* * *

During the time that Quentin and Maggie had spent in New Orleans, before settling in San Francisco, Maggie had grown close to Professor Dudoit's wife, Marjorie. The professor, like Quentin, had some unspoken connection to the supernatural. Marjorie had to learn to walk in her husband's world. She told Maggie that she had learned to face her fears and confront them, and Maggie must do the same. Marjorie told her that those who are uninitiated into the realm of the supernatural, must take up the tools available to them, and find the strength to use them when necessary. It was, she thought, what the women of Collinwood had done to rid the estate of Angelique.

Maggie reflected on these lessons as she made her way, in the growing light of dawn, through the woods, down the path that led down the bluffs, and ultimately to the beach. From there, she found the passage that had once taken her to freedom. This time, she followed the passage away from the beach, back to its source—the Old House basement. The smell of ocean brine mixed with peaty earth assaulted her, flooding her memory with brief images of fleeing in terror. But that was the Maggie she used to be, not the woman she was now.

She entered as quietly as she could—taking small, careful steps, until she reached her destination—the terminus of the passage and the basement's main room—the place where she knew Barnabas's coffin would be. She stood listening. Barnabas would already be in repose for the day, but Willie was still moving about. She could hear his nervous movements. She waited, breathing in soft shallow breaths.

Finally, she heard Willie's steps ascend the stairs, followed by the click of the door above that opened into the Old House foyer. Still, she waited. She could hear Willie's footsteps on the level above. She waited. At last, the footsteps stopped. When several long, impatient moments had passed, she decided it was safe.

She emerged from the passage, opened her tote, and from it she took out a thick, wooden knitting needle. It was not a stake, but it would do. Next she took out a small ball-peen hammer that she had taken from her old toolbox that had once belonged to her father.

Now that it was time to execute her plan, her hands shook more than she expected—more than she wanted—more, even, than they had the night of the ritual, when she was buoyed by the presence of the others. This time, she acted alone. She knew if she told anyone else, they would try to talk her out of it.

She stood for a moment, contemplating what it would be like to see Barnabas here, like this—vulnerable, but not innocent. Holding the knitting needle in one hand, and the hammer in the other, she raised the lid of the coffin. It's aging hinges creaked and moaned with the effort. It was remarkably heavy, but Maggie managed to raise it until the braces clicked into place and held it open. Barnabas lay inside in a state of repose.

_Unable to hurt me or anyone else now_, she thought. _And soon, unable to hurt anyone ever again._

She positioned the knitting needle over the vampire's heart. She raised the hammer, ready to strike.

"Maggie, _don't_!"

She had heard his footfall in the recesses of her brain as he approached.

"Please, Maggie," Quentin said. "Please don't do this."

"Why not?" she asked flatly.

"This isn't you," Quentin began.

"_This_ is what we learned during our travels—to right wrongs, to eliminate threats." Her tone was firm. "And he is a threat, Quentin."

"This isn't who you are, Maggie. Please don't do this."

"Why do you care so much?" she asked, without turning to meet his eyes.

Quentin was now beside her. Close enough to take the hammer from her hand, but he didn't. "Because Barnabas is family—more than that, he's my _friend_. He helped me when I was desperate and too far-gone to know it. But mostly because, I was once like him."

"He _killed_ Megan—and not a lifetime ago—_a few days ago_. He's killed before and he'll kill again. We both know he will," was her retort.

"Julia is working on a cure—and it's close," Quentin said in desperation. "We discussed it last night—she told me it's a week, maybe days away from being ready to test. At least give her a chance to complete her work. Barnabas deserves that chance. He deserves the chance that I've been given—the chance to begin again." Quentin watched as his wife's shoulders softened. He knew he had reached her. Only then did he place his hand over hers.

"Promise me," she said with force, not yet yielding the hammer to him. "Promise me, you won't let him kill again."

"Maggie …" he began.

"_Promise me!_"

"I'll find Willie. We'll go into Bangor to buy some chains. Barnabas will stay interred until Julia is ready to test the cure—_I promise_." Quentin could see angry tears forming in his wife's eyes, as she at last yielded the hammer to him. He took it, then the knitting needle from her hands. He let them clatter to the basement floor. He took Maggie in his arms and held her close. "I promise," he repeated over and over again until her tears, borne of anguish and frustration, were spent.

* * *

Later that day, the first day of school after an eventful break, Amy left school as she always did. David was off with his friends. Amy walked past the antiques shop. A sign in the window read "Closed until further notice." Amy felt a renewed feeling of grief wash over her. She turned and headed to her destination, the library.

Throughout the school day, Amy pretended to be a normal kid, like the rest of them, though she knew she was not. It didn't bother her that they thought she was weird, or knew that she was merely a ward of the Collins family. She had something more now—she _was_ something more now. It didn't matter that none of her classmates knew what she was capable of. _She_ knew. It was one thing for Megan to tell her that she had a gift. It was completely different to tap into that gift, to wield its power, to have successfully banished a force of much greater power by gathering others together to create a coven of sorts. She was different.

Now as she headed down the town's main street, she cared little what the other _children_ thought of her, because she knew she was so much more, and that she was no longer one of them.

What's more, she had seen Maggie that morning, and Maggie told her that she and Quentin were coming home to Collinwood to stay. It was what she wanted. It was _why_ she wanted to perform the ritual. It was worth it. And Collinwood would return to normal. Roger and Elizabeth would no longer argue. Carolyn and Tony would reunite. Barnabas and Willie would no longer cower before the likes of Angelique. It was worth it.

As she approached the library, she saw Professor Stokes, seemingly waiting outside. She smiled and went to him. "Hello Professor Stokes. What are you doing here? Are you waiting for someone?"

"I am indeed, Amy—you. Would you care to join me for tea? I have milk, if you prefer," the professor said.

Amy looked at the small Timex watch on her wrist. "I'd like that, but I have to be back promptly at 4:00 to meet Carolyn," she said.

"Very well. Shall we?"

The two set off to the professor's apartment, speaking little along the way. Once inside, the professor retired to the kitchen, but soon returned with a tray containing tea for him, a glass of milk for Amy, and a plate of cookies to share. He found Amy perusing one of his bookcases.

"Find anything interesting?" he asked.

_There will never be a better time to do it_, she thought_._ Amy pursed her lips and turned to face him. "Professor Stokes, I owe you an apology."

"Oh?" he said with a raised eyebrow.

"I borrowed something without asking your permission first." Her words came out in a rush. "And I'm sorry—very sorry."

"And what was that?" he asked. His tone, though measured, conveyed his concern.

"Your notebook about Angelique. I discovered it by chance, but I knew it could be useful in the banishment ritual. So, I borrowed it. It's how I knew that flames are her greatest fear. I'm very sorry," she repeated. Her cheeks flushed with her confession.

His face was stern. "But, it's here," he said, indicating the bookcase. "Just this morning, I documented what I know of the ritual and Angelique's banishment."

"Doctor Hoffman returned it for me," Amy confessed from behind shame-filled eyes.

"I see. So, not only were _you_ privy to my personal thoughts and observations, Julia was as well."

"I don't think she read it." Amy offered, but it sounded weak. "I don't blame you for being angry with me," she added. She couldn't recall ever seeing the professor angry. So, she didn't know what to expect.

"I am angry—with both you and Doctor Hoffman. She should have told me at once," he said sharply. Then he went on, "But I am more disappointed than angry. You have a great gift, Amy. I've seen that for myself, but your willingness to lie and betray my trust to achieve your ends suggests a serious lapse in moral guidance. Even in occult pursuits, you must be guided by more than self-interest. Believe me, I know.

"That is why, when Maggie called me today, I agreed to meet you. She asked me to be of use to you—to help you understand your gift, to help guide you in its use—perhaps as Megan Todd sought to do, but I hope, with equal attention to the means as to the outcome," he said.

"Does that mean you accept my apology?" Amy asked, her countenance brightening a shade.

"Indeed, it was the sincerity of your apology that convinced me that all is not lost." He broke the tension with a gentle smile. "Now," he said turning to the bookcase, "following your success with the banishment ritual, there is a small volume I think might interest you. But you mustn't neglect your education, as Maggie said you have been of late. The practice of any discipline begins with a solid educational foundation, Amy—even the study of the occult." He then delivered a short lecture on the value of a classical liberal education.

But Amy didn't mind. She welcomed it, because it showed he cared about her, not just her gift. "Yes, Professor Stokes. I promise—homework first."

~the end~


End file.
